


I'll be in the middle

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: I'll be in the middle [1]
Category: Numb3rs (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: (at first), Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bottom Malcolm Bright, Break Up, Breeding Kink, Butt Plugs, Competence Kink, Cooking Lessons, Crushes, Doppelganger, Double Anal Penetration, FBI Agent Malcolm Bright, Fast Sex, Filipino food, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Back Together, Gil Arroyo is Pinoy, Gil joins them late in the story fyi, Ian Edgerton is Pinoy, Ian feeds Malcolm and Malcolm feeds Gil, Insecure Malcolm Bright, M/M, Malcolm Bright's Shitty Self Image, Mpreg, Multi, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Pregnancy Kink, Riding, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Slow Romance, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Gil Arroyo, Top Ian Edgerton, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wall Sex, semi secret relationship, the Numb3rs timeline is moved up to fit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: ... while you two get along.The first time Malcolm Bright meets Ian Edgerton, he's reminded of Gil.The first time he sees Gil in years, he's reminded of Ian.An eventual poly romance in several parts. (Title from "In the Middle" by Dodie.)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright/Ian Edgerton, Malcolm Bright/Ian Edgerton
Series: I'll be in the middle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701061
Comments: 34
Kudos: 77
Collections: Prodigal Son Trash Swap Spring 2020!





	I'll be in the middle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToriCeratops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/gifts).



> I fell in love with this prompt from the get go. I hope you enjoy it, Tori!

### The beginning.

#### 2012

#### Quantico, Virginia

Everyone at Quantico has heard of Ian Edgerton before. He’s the number one sniper, the hotshot with a rifle, the hardass in the classroom. According to some, he’s also the hottest teacher, a man who owns his classroom with a confidence that never wavers. _Daddy material,_ the girl next to Malcolm whispers while they wait for Edgerton. He knows he’s attractive. He just doesn’t care for the brave few that approach him. 

So Malcolm prepares himself for his first day of class. He’s well aware of his type, but he wants to be an agent too much to sabotage his chances by trying to seduce a teacher, or worse, failing a class because of a crush. He’s been through harder. His Captain during his mandatory two years of experience hit all of his triggers, and he had to work with the man nearly every day. A few weeks of class with Edgerton will be a breeze. 

Then the man joins them. He’s silent, practically appearing at the edge of the group, sunglasses on and rifle case at his side. Realistically, someone should have spotted him coming up to the outdoor gun range. It’s in an open area, the only structure the stalls for shooting, and there’s only one way to approach.

He clears his throat and pulls off his sunglasses. “My name is Ian Edgerton. You’re here for my beginners sniper seminar. We won’t always meet here, but I’d like to gauge everyone’s experience now. Any questions?”

Anything Malcolm might have asked is lost to the void. He’s _not_ going to survive this class.

Ian Edgerton looks just like Gil. Well, not _exactly_. He’s clean shaven to start with, though his jawline eerily resembles the one he could see in old photos of Gil, from before he started growing his signature goatee. If Malcolm has to guess, he’d say the man in front of him is a few years younger, too. Not significantly, but enough to notice. Lastly, Gil would never skim over him in a crowd.

Malcolm stands up straighter and reminds himself where he is. 

“Right,” Edgerton says, clearly not impressed by the lack of questions. “I’ll be calling you up in alphabetical order now. The targets are already out.”

The first trainee up is a cocky young man about Malcolm’s age. He goes over to the station their teacher points to and efficiently sets up his rifle, taking aim and shooting each target as asked. 

Edgerton looks… neutral. If he’s that hard to please, Malcolm has no chance. But the beginner class is mandatory, both theory and profiling mixed with the practical. There’s no way Edgerton can kick anyone out on the first day. 

Two more people go up, the first an older woman, maybe in her thirties, who takes her time, but her shots are better than the first man. The second is another man, obviously a friend of the cocky one. They smirk at each other before he goes up. His shots are okay.

“Bright, Malcolm,” Edgerton calls out once he’s done. His face is just as blank as it was at the start.

Striding up to the station, Malcolm sets his rifle up and gets into position. That part isn’t the hard part. He spent some time getting familiar with rifles after getting his class list, not wanting to look like an idiot. He doesn’t much like guns as a whole. He knows his way around a handgun, of course, having needed to carry for his two years on the force, but a rifle is a different beast. 

Edgerton signals for him to start.

He aims. His hand shakes ever so slightly against the trigger. He breathes and pulls. The bullet hits the first target, not too far from the bullseye. Moving to the next target, he repeats the process. None of his bullets are quite as close as those of the three people before him. It’s not his aim that’s lacking. It’s his inexperience with the weight of the gun, the recoil. He steps away from the rifle and braces himself to see disappointment on Edgerton’s — on _Gil’s_ face.

But Edgerton just nods and calls the next name. 

One by one, each trainee goes up to shoot. Their instructor doesn’t make notes. He doesn’t smile or frown. He doesn’t say a word about anyone’s abilities. “If I call your name, stay back. If you don’t hear it, you’re dismissed.” 

Malcolm’s name is, of course, the first on the list. Besides him, there are four other trainees, all of them nervously waiting for whatever Edgerton has to say.

“You five show promise even though you’re behind your peers,” he says evenly. “I don’t expect you to become top twenty level snipers by the end of this class, but I do expect you to walk away with something. Your homework for next time is time on the range. At least an hour.” He looks over them sternly. “And trust me, I will be checking. If you come by Thursday afternoon, I’ll be available for help.”

There’s no soft smile to smooth out the edge of his words like there would be with Gil. No crinkling of the eyes, no kid tacked on at the end. Definitely no clap on the back. It should be enough to separate the two.

Should.

Malcolm knows he’ll be dreaming about Gil tonight. 

~

He clocks in three hours at the range before Thursday. With his insomnia giving him an edge, he’s able to save his other classwork until later with the knowledge that most of his night will be spent awake and in need of a distraction. He slots in time between seminars, when everyone else is eating, and even, on one notable occasion, as soon as the range opened. He was nearly bowled over by Edgerton that day, his instructor on his way out after private hours. 

“Bright,” was all he said. His face was considering, but neither approval or disapproval shone through. 

When Malcolm shows up at the range on Thursday, he gets the same neutral look. Only one other trainee of the five has the courage to show up, and she does not get the same. It makes him jittery. All of his steps are a fraction too quick, his words nearly running into each other when he talks to her, both of them admitting they’re not surprised no one else showed. 

Edgerton ignores their chattering until they get to the end of the range, which has been cordoned off by his request. “Swanson, you go first.”

As nervous as she looked, she’s all business as soon as her rifle is set up. She takes some deep breaths to shake off the remainder and takes aim at the first target. Her shots are marginally better than they were before.

If Malcolm had to guess, watching everyone before her shoot got to her.

“Better,” their instructor says. “Now I need you to do that over and over again until you begin to worry less about who’s watching you. You might only get one shot in the field.”

She frowns. “Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Bright, come over here.” He moves over one station so that Swanson can continue practicing. 

The jitters are still there as he moves to obey, practically jogging over to the older man. 

It puts an amused expression on Edgerton’s face. It’s the first time Malcolm’s seen anything _not_ neutral there. “Okay, Bright, show me what you got. I expect some improvement with all the time you’ve put in here.”

Dread sets in. Edgerton has _expectations_. Malcolm’s tense as he sets up the rifle. He takes his first shot, grimacing as it hits farther away from the target than it did on the first day. He’s aiming at the second target when the instructor stops him.

“Don’t startle on me,” Edgerton says before stepping closer. He molds himself to Malcolm’s back, breath against his ear, and reaches around to put his hands on top of the trainee’s. “Relax.” It’s an order.

Instantly, some of the stress melts off of him, something in that tone of voice telling his body to do as he’s told. 

Edgerton shifts Malcolm’s grip. He eases his finger around the trigger. “You worry too much.” 

He can feel the words skate by his ear, sending a ripple through him. He breathes.

The weight lifts off his back as Edgerton removes himself. “Now shoot.”

It isn’t perfect, but it’s closer than he’s managed so far. 

“Not half bad,” the man says behind him.

It shouldn’t make Malcolm happy. 

It does.

~

He continues to go to the gun range regularly, even though he has no interest in being a sniper, even though Edgerton is never around on another Thursday afternoon. They still pass each other when Malcolm comes by early. Every single time, he gets a nod and a “Bright” and a _look_ , but his instructor never acknowledges it elsewhere. 

He does well in class. His practical scores increase with his time at the range, and his theory scores were never low, not with Malcolm’s knack at understanding killers. Edgerton’s teaching helps, too. The man doesn’t shy away from his traits, be they faults or otherwise. He doesn’t flinch when he talks about how addicting it is, how powerful it feels to have someone in his sights. He talks about his kill count. He describes his way of choosing location. He tells them everything they need to know to understand a sniper’s thought process. 

Malcolm takes it all in. He wants to understand Edgerton’s mind. It’s not an easy task, because the man has experience hiding behind a stoic face. Not to mention those looks he still can’t decipher. More than once, he wonders if the man knows his birth name. Maybe he knows about his father, watches Malcolm to make sure he isn’t turning out the same way. Maybe he’s waiting to see if he needs to take him down.

But it doesn’t feel like that. There’s some kind of emotion behind those eyes when they lock onto him, and it isn’t negative.

At the end of the seminar, Edgerton offers one more practice at the range. It’s another Thursday. 

Malcolm goes.

~

His instructor is waiting for him by the desk. He’s got his sunglasses on, a gun case by his feet. Nothing in his face speaks of surprise at the sight of Malcolm. He nods. “Get yourself a rifle. We’ll wait another five.”

Five minutes pass, and there’s no sign of his peers. 

“Let’s get started, Bright,” Edgerton says, walking over to the same cordoned off area as last time. It wasn’t necessary to reserve space, because the range is nearly empty. All of the students are off celebrating the end of the first round of their classes, and most of the instructors go earlier, when the range isn’t open to trainees. He sets his gun case on the ground and looks at Malcolm expectantly. “Show me your form.”

Malcolm sets up the gun, the motions like second nature after so much practice. He glances over at Edgerton.

The man nods. “Doing good so far, Bright.”

Flushing, he turns back to the rifle and aims for the first target. 

“Remember what I told you,” Edgerton says, sounding closer than he was before. “Relax.” 

The nerves melt off. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and pulls the trigger. The bullet rips through the paper maybe two inches off the bullseye.

“Good.” There’s a distinct pleased note to his voice.

Malcolm shudders.

“Again.”

He aims for the next target. Rinse and repeat. He’s calm enough to get fairly close on most of the targets, with the notable exception of the last, because that’s when Edgerton decides to stand right behind him.

“One more,” the man says.

Malcolm jerks and misses the bullseye by closer to six inches. 

“Okay, I think I’ve seen enough.” Edgerton is back to where he started off standing, still wearing his sunglasses. “You’ve made a lot of progress, Bright.”

He subconsciously stands straighter at the praise. “Thank you.” 

“Thank you, _sir,_ ” his instructor says. His face is inscrutable.

And yet, Malcolm gets the feeling he knows exactly what is behind those sunglasses. He stares dumbly at the man.

Edgerton takes a step closer. “You heard me, Bright. Don’t forget I know how to read people, too.” He removes his sunglasses, exposing that same odd look. “If I’m wrong, feel free to take your rifle to the desk and leave.”

It’s heat, he realizes. Attraction. Edgerton is attracted to him. Edgerton, who looks like Gil, his crush of years. His mouth is dry. Is this wrong? He swallows. “Thank you, sir.”

A grin spreads across Edgerton’s face. “That’s it, Bright. Be good for me.”

Malcolm shudders again, which only makes the grin bigger.

“If you are,” he says slowly, pulling the moment out, “I might reward you.” 

“Please.” Malcolm grimaces at how needy he sounds.

The edges of his smile softening, Edgerton grips him by the chin, tilting his face up. “None of that, Bright. I want to hear all of your pretty sounds.”

“Yes sir,” he murmurs. He flushes again when his instructor laughs. 

“Do you know how you look at me in class?” Edgerton lets go of him. “You look like you want to devour me. Now’s your chance.”

Malcolm blinks and swallows, realizing exactly what the man means. And Edgerton is right, too. He’s wanted Gil’s — his instructor’s — cock in his mouth for months. He gets down on his knees without a word.

Brushing the younger man’s hair out of his face, Edgerton whistles. “Don’t worry about being seen. We have the range to ourselves.”

“But —”

“I told the attendants I would close up shop.” 

Malcolm’s eyes shut as he realizes that Edgerton planned this. It’s a heady feeling, being wanted. 

“You can back out at any time,” the man says quietly but seriously.

Instead of responding, the trainee reaches out and unzips his instructor’s fly. He groans as he feels the thick dick behind it. He pulls him out, exposing him to the cool air. It’s hot in his grip. Leaning forward, he swirls his tongue around the tip and looks up at Edgerton. 

The older man makes a satisfied sound. He threads a hand through Malcolm’s hair but doesn’t pull. “Good boy.”

Malcolm takes him in incrementally, bobbing his head while doing his best to keep eye contact. Even without the beard, his instructor looks so much like Gil, and he wants to pull this out, wants to pretend for as long as he can. He moans as the hand on his head strokes his hair.

“You always did perk up when I praised you,” Edgerton says breathlessly. “You’re doing so well for me, Bright.”

Screwing his eyes shut, he lets himself imagine Gil. Gil, who took to calling him Bright after his name change went through. Gil, who always had a kind word to say even when he was just a dumb kid tagging along on stakeouts. Gil, who has always been so gentle with him. It’s too much. He pulls off, breathing deep. “Rougher,” he says between breaths. If it keeps going this way, he’s going to say something he’ll regret. “Please, sir.”

Edgerton locks gazes with him and eventually nods, guiding Malcolm back onto his spit wet dick. He pulls him down slowly until his nose brushes up against his pubes. When all the trainee does is hum, he guides him back a few inches and gives an experimental thrust. Then a faster one, the head of his cock popping into Malcolm's throat. 

That’s much better. Much less gentle than he would imagine Gil would be with him. He moans, a garbled sound, and makes to free his own hard dick. 

"Hands off," Edgerton grunts. He's taking advantage of the leeway Malcolm has given him, using the younger man, fucking his face. "Or you won't get your reward."

So Malcolm abandons his fumble for his zipper and places his hands on his instructor's thighs instead, his grip loose as he rides the rocking of Edgerton's hips. 

"Good." He begins to move faster, his breath hitching as he nears the edge. "Can you swallow for me?"

Malcolm does. His throat constructs around Edgerton's dick, massaging him tightly, wringing his orgasm out of him.

He groans as he comes. His hands cradle Malcolm's head close to him, close enough that the trainee still clutches at Edgerton's thighs for balance. When he finally lets him go, he brushes his hair back and looks him over. “How are you feeling, Bright?”

His knees ache from the hard ground, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s sitting back on his feet and breathing. His face is flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes dazed from the brief lack of oxygen, and his arms rest down at his sides, his hands on the ground stabilizing him. He smiles, fucked out. “Was I good?” 

Edgerton chuckles. “Very. I promised you a reward, didn’t I?” He glances down and nods approvingly at the erection that still strains at Malcolm’s pants. He holds out both hands to the trainee. “C’mon, up.”

Malcolm puts his hands in his instructor’s, stumbling as the man hauls him up to his feet without much trouble. Already off balance, he gasps when he’s slammed into the nearest support pillar. 

“You still want it rough?” Edgerton’s eyes are intense. He’s not going to accept a lie.

“Yes, sir,” he says hoarsely.

Edgerton leans in and catches his mouth, slipping his tongue in as he deftly unzips Malcolm’s pants, wrapping a gun-calloused hand around his weeping dick. He swallows the trainee’s whimper before he breaks away with a smirk. He leans back down, this time to kiss his neck. 

Malcolm scrambles for something to grip. He eventually manages to wrap his arms around his instructor’s neck, trembling and moaning as the man scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin below his ear, jerking his cock at a steady pace. With how worked up he is, it won’t take long. 

“Are you close, Bright?” Edgerton asks against his neck. 

The heat of his breath makes Malcolm’s eyes flutter. “ _Fuck._ Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He pulls his head back to look at the flushed trainee, his hand still going. He grins when the younger man whines at the loss. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he murmurs and kisses him again briefly. “Let me hear you.” He goes in with his teeth just as he picks up the pace. 

Malcolm wails. If not for Edgerton, he would sink to the floor, his legs weak underneath him. He clutches at the man’s neck for support until he feels stronger.

When his instructor finally does pull away, he lifts his hand, dripping with Malcolm’s come, and licks it clean. “C’mon, Bright, let’s get you back to your building.” 

~

The next morning, he wakes up with a short note in his pocket.

_— Call me Ian (xxx)-xxx-xxxx_

~

Malcolm leaves the note on his bedside table for two days. He can’t bring himself to throw it out, but he’s not sure he should call either. Every night since then, he’s dreamed of Gil. More specifically, he’s dreamed of Gil fucking him. At first it’s gentle. The Lieutenant undresses him, following up with a trail of kisses after every article removed. Once he’s naked, he gets a languid kiss on the mouth as Gil reaches down to grab his cock.

And then it’s rough. Malcolm gasps into the kiss, his heels digging into the bed. Gil breaks away. Only it isn’t Gil. Edgerton’s — _Ian’s_ — beardless face is above him. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Bright?”

It always wakes him up. 

If Edgerton didn’t want anything more to do with him, if he hadn’t been so caring afterward or so commanding during… this would be so much easier. Malcolm would have something to add onto his fantasies of Gil. He could continue to be attracted to him, to lust after him, in silence. 

On day three, he calls the number. 

“Edgerton.” A standard terse opener. 

Malcolm breathes and reminds himself that his instructor doesn’t have his number. “It’s Bright.”

“I was wondering if you’d call,” Edgerton says, though he doesn’t sound like he was doubtful. “Are you free right now?”

Free for sex? Already? Malcolm bites his lip. It’s two in the afternoon. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Sir.”

The sniper chuckles, the sound sending shivers through the younger man’s entire body. “It’s just Ian today. Meet me at the cafe on campus in fifteen.” The call cuts out.

Absentmindedly pulling on a sweater, Malcolm contemplates what’s going on. He’s never had a fuckbuddy who took him out for coffee before. And yet, Ian never said a word about the night at the range being anything other than sex. He locks up his apartment and walks onto campus. 

Waiting outside the building, sunglasses on, is Ian. He moves to meet Malcolm as soon as he sees him, and they walk into the cafe together. “Order what you want, Bright.”

“Malcolm.” He does his best not to waver under that stare. “If you want me to call you Ian, you should call me Malcolm.” 

Ian nods. “Go ahead, Malcolm.” He patiently waits while the younger man orders his coffee and a cinnamon roll, a solid presence next to him. He orders his own coffee after and pays for both. 

They sit in a more isolated part of the cafe. 

“What is this?” Malcolm says, pinching a piece off his roll and eating it. 

Ian takes a sip of his black coffee. “Whatever you want it to be.”

“And if I want it to be nothing?” He licks a bit of icing off of his thumb. He sees the older man trace the movement with his eyes. 

“Then I take my coffee to go and leave you to enjoy yours in peace.” Ian sets his drink on the table. “There were no strings attached to the other night, Malcolm.”

The trainee plops another piece of cinnamon roll into his mouth to give himself a moment. “What if I say I’m interested in your proposal?”

“We move at your pace,” Ian says firmly, seriously. He doesn’t sound irritated, just patient. 

“So I could, theoretically, ask for a repeat right now?” He needs to know his boundaries. He needs to know how much he needs to prepare himself for more of the dreams, for more of the shame.

Ian looks amused, his smile cocky. "I didn't peg you for that eager, but I'm free. Do you have any more questions? Or would you rather find somewhere more private?" 

" _Theoretically,_ " Malcolm stresses even as he unsuccessfully fights back a smile. "But I'll keep that in mind."

### The evolution.

Before long, Malcolm is tied up with other classes, leaving very little time to call, let alone fuck. 

"I have three papers due tomorrow," he says when he runs into Ian at the cafe two weeks later. "Sorry."

Ian looks him over, silent and blank-faced. "Sit with me."

Malcolm does. He sets the biggest coffee he could convince the girl behind the counter to make him on the table between them. 

Across it, Ian is already grading papers, his attention on his work. 

So the trainee does the same, pulling out his essay notes and laptop, only stopping to take a swig of his drink. The writing pulls him in. He barely notices Ian closing his folder of papers and going up to the counter to buy two chocolate chip muffins. One of them is placed down by his half empty coffee. Malcolm absently thanks the man before pulling a chunk off and stuffing it into his mouth.

Ian shakes his head and goes back to his work.

By the time the younger man is able to pull himself away from his laptop screen, he has one essay finished, his coffee emptied and replaced and nearly emptied again. His muffin is scraps of a wrapper and a napkin. He downs the rest of his drink and finally looks back up. 

The sniper is staring at him.

"What?" 

"Nothing." Ian puts his sunglasses on and gathers his papers. "Call me when you're done. And get some sleep."

Malcolm watches him leave, dumbfounded.

~

Turns out he doesn't have to call. He goes to the cafe for the next two days to work, and both times he runs into Ian. Not always on the way in. The first day, the man is leaving as he comes in. He nods at Malcolm and flashes him a smile. The next day, Ian joins him an hour into his essay fugue state, announcing his presence with another muffin, blueberry lemon this time. 

Malcolm insists on buying him a sandwich when he takes a break. They eat together, the younger man picking at his with one hand and typing with the other. He can feel Ian's eyes on him. Somehow it isn't disturbing. 

"All done?" the sniper says, finishing up the tea Malcolm never noticed him buying. 

"Yes." He shuts his laptop happily. "For now, at least." He gathers his trash and, without thinking, leans across the table to grab Ian's as well. 

Ian clears his throat.

Malcolm glances up and flushes lightly. Then he straightens up, silent. 

"What's on your mind?"

“I don’t have any more work to do today.” He swallows. He knows what he wants, but he’s not sure he has the courage to ask for it. “Would you like to come back to my apartment?”

Ian tilts his head. “Sure you’re up for that?”

He needs it, honestly. He’s hyped on caffeine, on stress, on the constant stream of doubts running through his head at all times. He needs to be wanted. He needs to be _wrecked_. Ian can give him that. “One hundred percent.”

“Lead the way,” the sniper says, standing up and putting his sunglasses back on. 

~

Ian slams him up against the door as soon as they’re inside. There are no neighbors to worry, not with the wealth Malcolm has access to, and so he doesn’t bother to be gentle. He kisses him hard, hands fisted in his sweatshirt. 

The younger man lets him take control. It feels so good to do so, to be pushed and pulled

— and picked up. Ian encourages him to lock his legs around his waist, and then he’s hauling him away from the wall, hands cupping his ass as Malcolm’s thighs clench. “This is quite the apartment, rich boy. Where’s the bed?”

Malcolm barely remembers telling him where to go. He’s too focused on the way Ian holds him, the way he stalks through the entry hall and drops him on the mattress. “Left hand drawer,” he blurts out as the sniper kicks his shoes off. 

“I don’t think we have time for that kind of fuck,” Ian says, amused. He pulls off his shirt and then Malcolm’s shoes, too, before climbing onto the bed. His first target is the trainee’s pants, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping them. “Lift up for me.” 

Arching his hips, his head digging into the mattress, he feels his pants and boxers removed in one long tug. He drops down to the bed and struggles to take off his sweater and shirt. Eventually, he’s naked. A tired, jittery, naked mess. 

Ian looms above him, clad only in his own boxers. “Still with me?”

Malcolm nods. His mouth is dry. All throughout the semester, his instructor wore fairly baggy clothes, and although he logically knew the man must be fit based on his job, it’s different to be confronted with it firsthand. He’s been hard since they left the cafe. Now, his dick twitches as he bites his lip. He imagines Gil must be fit, too, even after the years Malcolm has spent away from New York. He always was when Malcolm stayed with him and Jackie and — he tosses that thought aside. “Kiss me?” He needs to feel that smooth face against his, needs to be reminded that this is Ian, not Gil. 

Ian obliges. He leans down over Malcolm, covering him with his body, and ravages his mouth, seemingly uncaring of the hard cock rubbing against him. When he pulls away, he smirks at the limp mess the trainee has become. "Any other requests?"

Malcolm looks up at him, flushed and panting. "Make me scream."

Moving back, Ian lays down between his legs, hooking them over his shoulders with ease. 

It shouldn't be surprising, but the first nudge of his nose against Malcolm's balls makes him gasp. "Ian…"

The man spreads his cheeks just enough to flick his tongue against the twitching hole. It's a tease, a promise, a taunt. 

Malcolm grips the sheets.

Slowly, Ian circles his rim with the tip of his tongue. He flicks his tongue again, the contrast in tempo sending a jolt through his partner's hips. With one hand, he reaches up and around to grip his cock, too. 

Malcolm bites his lip and whines, his toes curling as he's finally touched.

Ian leans in. His tongue works in past the spit slicked muscle and dips in and out. He adjusts his position so that he can get in closer, his lips touching skin and his tongue going deeper. His hand strokes Malcolm idly. He's careful not to tip him over the edge too fast. 

"More," Malcolm gasps. "Please, sir. _Fuck._ "

A finger slips in beside the tongue. It's a tight fit without something slicker than spit to ease the way, but it's what he needs. Ian thrusts his finger as he works his tongue, stretching the trainee as he fucks him. He moves his other hand a little faster.

Malcolm shakes, too hard before they even started to last much longer. "I can't —" 

Ian fits another finger in, working both digits and his tongue faster, curling and thrusting and teasing the sensitive rim. He jerks him faster, relentlessly, as Malcolm's hips twitch, trembling constantly as he skates the edge.

The trainee's thighs lock around the sniper's head, and he whines, paints his chest white. It's prolonged by how Ian keeps going, works his hand until his lover runs dry, rims him until he’s weeping from the overstimulation. Finally, he pulls away, a proud smirk on his face as he takes in Malcolm’s loose, sleepy form. He gets off the bed to find the bathroom and wets a washcloth, wringing it out and bringing it back to the bedroom. 

There, Malcolm is asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes, still naked, still streaked with his own spend. He doesn’t stir when Ian wipes him clean or hesitates at the side of the bed. He doesn’t even twitch when he encourages him over or climbs in beside him or even when the sniper tugs him closer until they’re spooning. 

~

He does wake, of course, and it’s not pretty. He screams and howls and thrashes as the nightmares start, as his subconscious throws him in the deep end. 

But something pins him down. Immobilizes him. Covers his mouth.

His eyes shoot open. Ian's face is inches away from his, creased in worry and startlingly awake. Malcolm is _mortified_. 

The older man removes his hand but stays on top of him. “Night terrors?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t — it takes a lot to put me to sleep,” he says weakly. 

Rolling off of him, Ian is silent for a moment. “Is that why you have your own floor?”

“Partly.” Malcolm sits up and rummages through his bedside drawer. He pulls out his mouth guard. “It’s also why I have this.” He reaches between the nightstand and the bed, coming back with an empty cuff. “And these.” 

Truthfully, no one’s ever stayed the night. He usually ushers them out shortly after sex, lets them think he’s a jerk, that he just wanted a fuck. Sometimes they come back for more. Sometimes they’re turned off by it and give him the cold shoulder. None of them have seen the night terrors.

“Kinky.” Ian’s propped up on one arm, looking at him calmly. “So I’ll strap you in next time.”

“Next time?”

“Unless you’re not interested.” He doesn’t say anything else, but his body is relaxed and his face neutral. 

Malcolm gets the feeling that he would leave him alone if he asked, just like Ian offered that time at the range. He swallows. “I’m interested.”

“So am I.” Ian gives him another look over, reminding him that he’s naked, before climbing out of bed and beginning to pull his clothes on. “I have a class to teach in half an hour, otherwise I’d suggest breakfast.”

Malcolm follows his lead and grabs a fresh pair of boxers to slip on, so that he’s not the only naked one in the apartment. He feels oddly relaxed. In the instant he became aware of what happened, all he felt was shame and fear and loss. He was so sure Ian would think he was too much trouble. But just like Gil, he was worried instead of horrified. He wonders if Gil would be able to pin him like that, too. How he’d look above him.

Rubbing at his eyes to destroy that image, Malcolm focuses on breathing. He can hear Ian moving around behind him, probably putting on his shoes. He reminds himself that Gil would never look at him like that. Ian is his own person. 

Even if they look similar, there are plenty of differences. The sniper’s hair is much shorter than his old crush’s, a little spiky where Gil’s is smooth. Their facial hair and lack thereof, of course. And then their personalities. Ian is abrupt and matter of fact where Gil is soft and easygoing. 

Malcolm repeats these things in his head, over and over again, as he dresses and when he turns to find Ian watching him. 

“What can I say? I like a good view.” He smiles. Walking around the bed, he pauses in front of the younger man. He lifts a hand up to cup his jaw and pulls him into a searing kiss. “I’ll see you around.”

And then he’s gone. 

~

Malcolm forces himself to wait another few days before calling him. At first, it’s because he’s worried that Ian was bluffing, that he really _was_ uncomfortable with the night terrors and the restraints. Then, he holds off because he doesn’t want to come off as too clingy. He’s sure Ian has a life, and he’s not a part of it, not really. The older man doesn’t need a needy fling who can’t even stay awake long enough to reciprocate. 

He even cuts his calls with Gil and Jackie short with the excuse of homework. They’re worried about him, he can tell, but he promises he’ll get in touch with them again soon. Talking with the Lieutenant will lead to thinking about Ian, about the note on his nightstand. 

But he spirals. His classwork takes a minor, yet noticeable hit, and one professor even comments on it. 

He calls Ian.

“Hey, rich boy.” His voice is smooth, warm, and unmistakably not annoyed. 

“Ian,” Malcolm says, cursing himself when it comes out breathy. He clears his throat. “I’m about to head to the cafe —” A lie. “— and I was wondering if you wanted to meet.”

“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m out on a job right now.” He sounds genuine, like he really does regret not being able to go. 

“The arsonist?” he says, excited, forgetting all of his insecurities. It’s the only high profile case he can think of right now that they might call Ian in on. Authorities followed the arsonist halfway down the west coast, barely able to figure out where he might go next or when there’d be another fire. He knows from chatter around the Bureau that the agents on the case managed to link all of them based on the specific combination of accelerants used. However, they’re too common, too accessible to be used to track down the actual culprit. 

But Ian is a skilled tracker.

“That’s the one. I’ve already done some preliminary work. I have a few leads to check up on.” He sounds unbothered.

Malcolm figures it shouldn’t be surprising. With all of the cases Ian has been on, with all of the people he’s brought in for the Bureau, he must be confident he can crack this case. Malcolm finds that he’s confident, too. There’s something about the sniper that reeks of competence.

“What’s on your mind, rich boy?” Ian says, breaking his line of thought.

“The arsonist,” he answers truthfully. He called to talk about them and meet up, but now that he knows where Ian is, it’s all he can think about.

“Well, then share.” 

“Are you serious?” It’s not like Ian needs the help of a trainee. Yes, Malcolm has the psychology degree as well as his short time at Quantico behind him. He also has years of speaking with his father in his belt, but he hopes the older man doesn’t know about that. Gil always listened to him when he chimed in about cases. Gil was patient with him, however. Familiar, too.

“You applied to the FBI to be a profiler,” Ian says, as blunt as always. “Humor me.”

Malcolm swallows and contemplates what he already knows about the arsonist. The part of him that always wanted his father’s approval, _Gil’s_ approval, is apprehensive. “They haven’t struck the same kind of place twice, but every fire was set when the building was empty or near empty. The only casualties so far have been staff who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s intentional.” He grows bolder with each sentence that goes by without an interruption. “They know the ins and outs of each building, and that means they’ve done their research. They haven’t had the time to scope out the scenes, however, not with how fast they’re working.”

“I agree,” Ian says. “There are much easier targets to hit.”

“They have a history at each location,” Malcolm decides. “That’s how they know where to set the fires and how to get in without alerting anyone, even in the more populated areas. They’re destroying the places that have hurt them.”

“The problem is knowing when.” Ian’s teaching voice is coming out, the firm, methodical way he talks pulling his audience’s attention right to him. “These buildings have been standing for decades. We don’t have time to go through all of the employment records, and there’s no guarantee our arsonist was an employee. It could be a dead end.” 

The trainee bites his lip. He’s sure their culprit is tied to each place somehow, but proving it… He straightens up. “Ian, they have to have worked at each place a long time ago. These fires are too organized for a fresher grudge. They’ve been planning this for years. I bet the order of the locations matters, too. They’re cleansing their past symbolically.”

“What would you suggest?” he says mildly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“I’d cap the record search at… ten years ago. The earlier the fire, the farther back in the records you’ll find them.” Malcolm holds his breath. This is more important than the exercises he does in his seminars. If Ian listens to him, and he’s wrong, there will be actual consequences.

“I’ll keep that in mind. I have to go,” Ian says, not unkindly. “Don’t forget me while I’m gone, rich boy.” 

The call cuts out. 

Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, Malcolm puts on his shoes and heads for the library. He needs to read up on arson statistics.

~

Ian calls back three days later. “Have you eaten yet, rich boy?”

The clock reads just past nine at night, and Malcolm grimaces. “No?”

“Don’t. I’ll be there in twenty,” he says before hanging up.

Maybe it’s presumptive, but he doesn’t want tonight to be all about him again, and so, after a quick look in his bedside drawer, he climbs up onto his bed with a bottle of lube and his favorite plug. He slicks up one finger and rubs against his hole. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as Ian’s tongue. Still, it’s familiar. He pushes inside with a sigh and gets to work opening himself up.

~

When Malcolm opens the door, he’s greeted first with the sight of two hot pizza boxes from a local joint and then by the tired face of his two time lover. “You look like you need sleep.”

Ian laughs. “You’re one to talk. What I need is a slice of grease and good company.” He hands the boxes off to the younger man and removes his coat, hanging it up by the door. 

They eat at the kitchen island. Although Malcolm pulls out plates, both of them end up hunched over the open boxes, excess grease and cheese caught by the cardboard. It brings up memories of doing this in the Arroyo house. Jackie would give a token protest at the mess, but by the end, she’d be crowded in next to Gil with a slice in hand. 

Ian gives him an amused look when he pats his plain cheese down with a handful of napkins. 

“I have a sensitive stomach,” he says sheepishly. 

The sniper leans over the island to give him a greasy kiss. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

~

“What now?” Malcolm watches from the island as Ian washes his hands in the kitchen sink. Even standing still, he can feel the plug keeping him stretched and ready, but he’s not so sure it was necessary, not with how exhausted the sniper looks. 

“That’s up to you.” He dries his hands on a towel hanging on the side of the island, facing Malcolm again. “We can call it a night now.”

“Or you can stay here,” the younger man offers, hesitant. It’s one thing for Ian to come back after their last night, it’s another for him to want to share a bed again. 

Ian watches him fidget. “Do you know why I came here tonight?” He doesn’t let Malcolm fall into less kind thought patterns. “I thought you would ask about the case.”

“I saw the news. You caught him.” It was all over TV, not to mention the Bureau itself. Every single criminal Ian Edgerton catches adds more rumors to his name, more whispers from starry-eyed trainees. Malcolm kept an ear out after their call.

“I did.” Ian smirks. “Using _your_ profile. When I asked the team to focus on records older than ten years, they found him. Our arsonist worked at his most recent target eleven years ago. They tracked him back to all of the previous locations.”

There’s a rush of something — pride, giddiness, satisfaction — as he processes it. Of course they would have found the man eventually, but _he_ helped. 

“You did good, rich boy,” Ian tells him, meaning every word. The heat in his eyes betrays the fact that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

( _You did good,_ Gil used to say. He’d smile wide, eyes crinkling, and ruffle the young boy’s hair.)

Malcolm grabs his arm and drags him back towards the bedroom in a rare display of confidence. The plug shifts with every hasty step, his cock thickening in his pants even more. He lets go of him as soon as they’re there. “I need you to fuck me, Ian.”

“How can I say no to that?” The sniper pulls his shirt over his head in one swift motion, his hands moving to his belt before it hits the floor. “Strip.”

Keeping eye contact the whole time, Malcolm undresses with shaky fingers, not from stress or worry but excitement. He leaves his boxers on. He wants Ian to find his surprise himself. He pulls a condom out from his bedside drawer. The bed is soft beneath him, the expensive sheets caressing his bare skin as he lays himself out for his lover.

Ian joins him, slotting himself between lean thighs and slipping callused fingers below the waistband. “You’re good for me,” he says huskily. “Smart, handsome.” He hooks his fingers and tugs to reveal Malcolm’s cock, already hard. “Eager.”

The trainee lifts his hips to help with the removal. He’s still waiting, wanting.

And when Ian hitches up his legs, he finally sees it. The base of a light gray plug is nestled between Malcolm’s cheeks. The muscles around it contract, valiantly trying to pull it deeper as Ian stills. He lets one leg fall to the side and grips the base lightly. He tilts the plug, gently pulling. 

Malcolm bites his lip and whimpers. The wide part of the plug stretches his rim until it pops out. “I used plenty of lube,” he explains breathlessly. “You don’t have to prep me, you can just —”

“Fuck you?” Ian grins as he nudges the plug back in and eases it out again in a show of what’s to come. “I always think I know just how eager you are, and then you surprise me.” He tugs the toy out all the way. “It’s _hard_ to surprise me, Malcolm.” 

His toes curl at the emptiness. His ass clenches. His eyes screw shut. “Please, sir.”

Ian rolls the condom on. He shuffles closer, settling one of the trainee’s legs up on his shoulder, the other bent loosely around him, and covers him as he ravages his mouth. He breaks apart for just as long as he needs to line himself up. His thick dick presses against Malcolm’s slick, loose rim. Leaning down to bring their mouths together again, he presses forward, sliding in at a steady pace.

Malcolm gasps into the kiss. He’s only seen, touched, tasted Ian’s cock once, and he knows it’s thick, but it feels so much larger inside. He’s filled and covered. It’s been a few months since he’s been fucked by anything other than silicone, and the warmth of the sniper against him makes him feel dizzy.

“I’m counting on you to tell me when you’re ready,” Ian murmurs against his mouth. 

He opens his eyes and licks his lips. “I’m ready, sir.”

With a slow smile, Ian pushes himself up one his knees again and pulls back. He rolls his hips forward and repeats, easing into a starting rhythm. His eyes are trained on Malcolm’s face. He watches to see how he’s adjusting. When the younger man fails to wince, he snaps his hips. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Malcolm yells as he spasms. “Shit, Ian, like that.”

But the sniper slows down on the next thrust. 

“Sir,” Malcolm corrects.

Ian turns his head and kisses his leg before speeding up again, fucking the younger man the way they both want. He hilts with every slam of his hips. His balls slap against Malcolm’s ass, but the sound is drowned out by the staccato of sounds that escape the trainee’s mouth. Ian grits his teeth as he works harder. “Have you ever come untouched?”

“A few times,” he bites out. 

Ian readjusts his grip and moves faster. “Do it for me, Malcolm.”

The order rips a moan out of him. He clenches around the cock fucking him. 

The thrusts are relentless, Ian’s hand on his leg grounding him even as he pounds him into oblivion. 

“Please, sir.”

“Come,” Ian demands. His face is flushed from exertion, and sweat is building on his brow. 

Malcolm does. 

The sniper fucks him through it, telling him how good he is, how goddamn tight he feels, how hot he looks falling apart beneath him. His words only trail off when his own orgasm hits him. His hips twitch as he buries himself as far into Malcolm’s heat as possible. Eventually, he gathers himself enough to pull out, holding the condom. He ties it off and stumbles off the bed.

This time, Malcolm is still awake when Ian wipes him clean with a warm washcloth. He smiles lazily at the sniper, content to stay where he is. 

Ian slides into bed next to him and pulls the covers over them both. He secures one of the younger man’s wrists with a cuff before finding his mouth guard and handing it over. 

Reaching out blindly, Malcolm flicks the lights off.

They sleep.

~

Ian doesn’t always stay over. Sometimes he has the catch a flight, so they fuck furiously on the couch, racing to finish before he has to leave. Other times he has an early class and doesn’t want to wake Malcolm. Occasionally, he just plain needs to sleep in his own apartment. 

When he does stay, he insists on staying in the bed, even after particularly rough nightmares. He manages to pin Malcolm down long before he could do any damage to either of them, so why shouldn’t he? The nights can be difficult, but they’re worth it, he insists.

That afternoon, he jerks them both off, cocks pressed against each other in his lubed fist, because he needs to be at the airport in an hour. It’s a last minute case. He got the call less than two hours prior, and the first thing he did after throwing a few more essentials into his travel kit was head to Malcolm’s. 

They’re not officially dating. They do this song and dance of fucking and sleeping and not communicating. They talk, yes, but not about what they are. Their cafe sessions are the same silent companionship. The occasional meal they share is always studded with talk of cases and killers. Even the afterglow today is not immune to it. 

Ian tells him what he knows about the killer as he straightens his clothes. It’s another sniper, he says. Likely with some sort of military training, but unlike him, they’re not content or able to work with the government any longer. He’s dealt with many of these cases. It won’t take long.

Not that that should matter, really. Malcolm knows they’re not serious enough that he should miss Ian, and yet… he always does. He can’t follow him on his missions while he has his own classes to attend, and most of the time, Ian isn’t able to talk on the phone, either. He hates those periods of radio silence.

Ian has only been gone an hour.

With a sigh, he calls Jackie. He knows he can trust Gil to talk him through his worries, too, but it feels wrong when he knows he’s talking about the man’s doppelganger. And Jackie has always had an open ear for his struggles. 

“Malcolm, sweetheart, how’ve you been?” Her voice is as warm and kind as it was when Gil first introduced them. 

“Hey Jackie,” he says, and he can hear the loss in his own words. “Do you have time to talk?”

“For you? Of course.” There’s a shuffling noise, like she’s shifting the phone to the other side. She’s probably doing laundry. “What’s on your mind?”

“I met someone.” He cringes at how cliche that sounds. “We’re not dating,” he clarifies.

“Mmhm. It sounds to me like you want to. Tell me about him.”

Malcolm bites his lip. He can’t blame her for figuring it out. He wasn’t too subtle. “He’s… older. Strong, smart.” _And he looks just like your husband._ “He’s on a work trip right now, Jackie. I miss him.”

“Sweetheart, you know I would never judge you, right? I just want to make sure you’re being careful,” she says cautiously. “You’re a clever cookie. Is he taking advantage of you?”

“No,” Malcolm blurts out. The fact that she cares so much warms him, but he doesn’t want her to think of Ian that way. It doesn’t matter that he plans for them to never meet. “No, he’s letting me set the pace. He hasn’t done anything I don’t want.”

“Okay.” Jackie sounds relieved. Still cautious, but relieved. “Malcolm, you should talk to him. If he’s given you the reins, he might be waiting for you to bring up dating. Even if he isn’t open to it, it would be good to get it cleared up.” Her voice softens. “I don’t want you to be hurt if you find out he doesn’t want anything serious down the road.”

Deep down, he knows she’s right. He’s getting attached, both to the way Ian manipulates his body and to the presence of him in his sphere. “Thank you, Jackie,” he says absently. “I’ll think about it.”

They both know he won’t do anything.

“I’m glad I could help. Do you want me to say hi to Gil for you? He’s missed getting your updates.” It’s not aimed to hurt him, just a fact. 

Malcolm grimaces. He’s glad Gil isn’t home right now. He doesn’t think he can talk to the man so soon after he and Ian were tangled on the couch. “Could you? I’ll try and call when he’s home next time.”

“He’ll be happy. Call back soon, okay, sweetheart?”

“I will. Goodbye, Jackie.”

~

He spends the next two days thinking, agonizing over Ian. He _does_ want to date the sniper. Hell, if not for the way their whatever it is started, he would think that their shared meals and cafe meetings already are dates. But he can’t shake the feeling that they’re little more than acquaintances with benefits. He’s not sure he could handle Ian spelling that out for him.

He even makes a list. Pros and cons of bringing the topic up. Hesitantly, he adds ‘official relationship’ to the pros column. ‘Less doubt’ joins it. The cons column quickly outweighs the two, filled with things like ‘no more sex’ and ‘we stop talking’ and whatever else his mind throws at him. It certainly doesn’t help him follow Jackie’s advice.

When he picks the list out of the trash for the third time, smoothing the creases out, his phone rings. 

“Hey rich boy,” Ian says huskily. “I told you it would be a quick one, didn’t I?”

“You caught him already?” He doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

“He fit the classic profile to a T.” His words are tinged with boredom. “White male, 40s, military experience. I caught up with him a few hours ago, but my flight isn’t until tomorrow.”

Malcolm sets the paper down on the table and takes a seat on the couch. “When tomorrow?”

“Early. I should be back in time for my seminar.”

“If you have to wake up early —”

“Malcolm,” Ian interrupts, “I wanted to call.”

“Oh.”

Ian chuckles. “I was thinking about you, sprawled on that pricey couch of yours.” His tone leaves no room for misunderstanding. There were no clothes involved in this fantasy.

“I’m sitting on it right now.”

A satisfied noise drifts over the line. “Lay down for me.”

He does. One of his legs rests along the length of the couch, the other half off the cushions, bent so that his foot is flat on the hardwood. His free hand finds a place on top of his stomach. “I did.”

“Good boy.” There’s shuffling on his end. “Take off your shirt.”

He has to sit up to do it. The soft shirt drops to the floor. His nipples harden at the resulting chill. “Pants?”

“Leave them on for now,” Ian says firmly.

Malcolm bites his lip. “Yes, sir.”

Ian huffs. “You have no idea what you do to me, rich boy. Play with your nipples.”

He closes his eyes and rolls one, pinching and hissing at the slight sting. “Then tell me, sir.”

“I’m going slow. I want you to fall apart before I do.” He hums. “It’s hard when I think about what a pretty picture you make laid out for me, touching yourself.”

Malcolm moans and switches nipples. The first one throbs lightly from the abuse. 

“I knew you’d like that,” Ian says, so satisfied. “You can move on, Malcolm. Cup yourself. Over the pants.”

His hips buck when he makes contact with his desperately hard cock, the weight of his hand a more than welcome sensation even through layers of fabric. “Sir,” he groans.

“You’re already hard.” It’s matter of fact. “Good boy.”

“Can I finish undressing, sir?” Malcolm says through gritted teeth. This shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, but Ian’s voice has him on edge. He’s half convinced he’s going to come in his boxers.

“Go ahead. I think you’ve earned it.”

Pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear, he lifts his hips and shucks both pants and underwear. He shivers, his cock twitching against his stomach as it’s exposed to the air. The first touch of bare skin against it drags a gasp out of him, and Malcolm has to squeeze the base until the sensation settles down. 

There’s a low moan over the line. “The fucking sounds you make, rich boy. You can stroke yourself when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, sir,” he murmurs as he clutches at the phone. Nearly a minute passes before he can. 

“I’m thinking about your mouth on my cock,” Ian groans. “Are you thinking about me?”

“Your hands.” A stuttered sound. “I love your hands. Even if we met differently, I’d know you were good with guns.” Malcolm’s babbling, hand fisting his flushed dick, skin slick against the leather couch. “The calluses — Ian, sir, _fuck._ ”

“You can come,” the sniper says tightly. He’s close, too, just from listening to the younger man. “Stripe yourself, rich boy.”

He moans, hips bucking into his hand as his orgasms, come hitting his chest as he breathes heavily.

“Such a good boy.” There’s shuffling, a hiss, and a curse. “Malcolm!”

The trainee’s spent dick gives a twitch. He wishes Ian were in the room with him. He wishes it could be his hand on the man’s cock, his grip getting him off. “Ian, when you get home, I want to talk.” He winces and waits for any blowback.

“Not what I expected for afterglow,” Ian jokes not unkindly. “I’ll drop by your apartment when I can.” He pauses. “Goodnight, Malcolm.”

“Goodnight, Ian.”

~

The next day is nerve-wracking. Malcolm knows Ian won’t be able to meet until after his seminar at the earliest, and it takes all of his willpower not to show up at the range around the time it ends. Instead, he attends his classes and takes detailed notes. He goes to the cafe and gets himself a coffee and a danish, which he finishes hastily on the way to the library. There, he settles in and finishes all of his remaining homework. 

When four o’clock rolls around, he gives up and walks back to his apartment, stopping at a small grocery store for a bag of twizzlers on the way. He rips it open as soon as he gets back on the street. There’s something soothing about tearing off a piece with his teeth and gnawing it into submission, something that eases his shoulders. 

Ian still hasn’t called.

Malcolm fishes out a second twizzler and holds it between his teeth while he fits the key into the lock. His bag slips off the couch where he throws it to fall to the floor, and he curses, feeling like nothing more than a petulant toddler.

Ian has more important things to do, he reminds himself. He just got back from a mission. He has classes to teach, students to help, and superiors to report to. The last thing he needs to do is meet with his _fuckbuddy_.

The thought hits Malcolm hard, dragging his stomach down and rendering the twizzler tasteless. He spits it into the kitchen trash. He doesn’t want to think about why he cares so much. Fleetingly, he finds himself irritated with Jackie for bringing this up, but it doesn’t last long, the rational side of him refusing to take his mood out on her, especially when this was simmering in the back of his mind already.

He toes off his shoes and changes into his most comfortable clothing. 

There’s a knock at the door.

It’s a familiar ritual, opening the door to Ian holding dinner. He can’t muster a smile. 

Ian takes one look at the younger man and frowns. “You don’t look good, Malcolm.”

“Is it that obvious?” If he looks even half as bad as he feels, his distress is all over him in flashing lights. 

“I thought we would eat first and then have a talk, but we’ll talk first. Food’s cold anyway.” The sniper sets both paper bags on the island before taking a seat at the table. He looks at Malcolm expectantly.

Malcolm sits, but doesn’t look at him.

“I was wondering if you planned on stopping this,” Ian says eventually. “Now I’m not so sure. You look like you’re facing down a firing squad.”

“ _This_ is my problem,” He blurts out. He brushes his hair back with a shaky hand. “What is this? Am I just —” A frustrated noise escapes him, the worst of his thoughts swirling in his head. “Am I just a fuck? What are we doing?” God, he feels so stupid.

Ian lets him finish. “No,” he says shortly. “What this is, is good company. You never expressed wanting more — or less.” He sighs. “Look, Malcolm, I don’t do relationships. My apartment is barren, because I need to be ready to fly across the country with only a phone call and live in isolation for however long it takes to track my target down. That kind of life doesn’t lend itself to anything permanent.” 

Malcolm feels just as empty as the sniper’s apartment. “Ian —” 

“But,” he stresses, “I like this. Us. Whatever you want to call it. As long as you’re willing to be patient with me, I’d like to keep it going.”

“I’m sorry.” Malcolm takes a deep breath. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts get in the way, shouldn’t have let himself dwell on the insecurities that were always there.

“Don’t be. If anything, both of us are at fault. I thought your doubts would pass, and you kept it locked up until you burst.” The look he levels at the trainee is wholly serious. “Now, I picked up some of the best sandwiches in town, if you’re hungry.”

He is, now that he thinks about it. His stomach, filled with nothing more than a danish and one twizzler, cramps up, and he winces.

Ian grabs one of the bags and pulls out two paper wrapped sandwiches. He tosses one over to Malcolm quickly followed by a small bag of chips. “It’s nothing fancy like you usually buy, rich boy, but it’s good.” He smiles. “And I guarantee you their cake is even better.” He gestures back at the other bag on the island. 

They eat and discuss his case. Ian uses it as a teaching moment, though he points out that it’s rarely so easy to find the criminal. Some of them are just predictable. By the time the cake comes out, they’re both more relaxed, Ian’s long legs stretched out beneath the table, one foot brushing against Malcolm’s. 

They don’t fuck that night, just sleep.

~

For the next month, the sex is not as frequent, not as frantic or desperate. Their time together leans more towards companionship, and it’s not unusual for Ian to drop by uninvited to talk cases, whether his own or something in the news, or simply share a meal they would have otherwise skipped or taken alone. 

There still is sex, of course. Sometimes Malcolm opens the door to Ian’s smirk, his wanting gaze, and they fuck before food or killers are brought into the equation. The trainee, now more firm footed in their arrangement, instigates it, too. He slips a ‘sir’ in now and then, sucks icing off his fingers at the cafe, answers the door in his boxer briefs. 

Now, however, they also slow things down. Ian insists on opening Malcolm up himself some days. He works thick fingers in at a steady, languid pace, one after the other until the younger man is begging and fucking himself back onto them. Malcolm returns the favor with agonizingly slow blowjobs and, on a few rare occasions, long cockwarming sessions that manage to test Ian’s patience.

Eventually, they fall into a more even pattern, cycling between the hard and fast and the slow and gentle. They still don’t put a label on what they are. They just are. They eat, talk, fuck, and sleep together, and somehow, it’s enough.

### The milestones.

Graduation. It seems unreal to be finally achieving his dreams, the goals he’s had for roughly a decade now, and yet the end is in sight. He’s put in his twenty weeks of work. All of his classes are finished, all of his practicals completed. His grades are in, more than good enough to meet all of the requirements to become a full-fledged special agent, and he even has recommendations. None of them are from Ian, and he knows the sniper didn’t do so much as suggest it to anyone else, which makes the light feeling in his chest all the more precious.

Malcolm Bright is going to be an agent of the FBI, and he did it on his own merits. His family’s wealth and reputation barely touched him. His father’s name didn’t drag him down. Malcolm didn’t fuck it up with his own insecurities, either. 

He sets the notice down on the coffee table in front of him and leans back, his face hurting from how wide his grin is. 

He did it.

The front door opens and closes, the sound soft and slight. Without even looking, Malcolm knows it’s Ian. He gave the only other copy of his key to the sniper a few weeks ago, and the man took to using it often. Sometimes he even came in late at night after a job, silent enough to slip into bed without waking his lover. It isn’t unusual for Malcolm to come home to find him already there, too. It’s quieter with no neighbors, Ian claimed.

Malcolm lets his head flop back on the top of the couch as the sniper leans down, resting his forearms on either side of it, their faces inches apart. “What’re you so happy about, rich boy?”

“That’ll be Special Agent Rich Boy to you soon,” Malcolm jokes.

Ian kisses his cheek. “I told you you’d manage it, didn’t I?” He pushes off the couch and rounds it to sit next to the younger man, slotting him into his side with ease and familiarity. “When is it official?”

“Next week.” He knows his family, both biological and found, will want to visit, but he can’t force Ian to take a step back while they’re all at Quantico. It wouldn’t be fair.

It also isn’t fair to not give anyone warning. Malcolm can’t brush it off, can’t say he didn’t realize they look alike. His stomach drops as the potential consequences start hitting him. He’s told Ian about Gil and Jackie before, about how pivotal of a role they played in his childhood, and his lover had even correctly guessed that he had a crush on Gil. As soon as Ian sees the other man for the first time… 

He’s flicked in the forehead. “It’s good news, rich boy. You were happy a second ago, remember? Are you that worried about me meeting your family?”

“I want you to,” Malcolm says firmly. And he finds he does. He and Ian have been doing their thing for months now, and he’s sick of not saying anything to anyone other than Jackie. 

But he doesn’t want to lose Ian when the man realizes he’s a copy. 

Malcolm feels ill at the thought, and that doesn’t take into account Gil’s reaction to finding out the person he views as a son is fucking his doppelganger. His mother will shout, he’s sure, and Ainsley will mostly be amused, maybe a little grossed out. Jackie would be uncomfortable, especially with the knowledge that he purposefully never talked about Ian’s appearance.

“I’m the fourth best sniper in the country,” the older man says. He doesn’t say it as a boast, but rather a comfort. “I won’t be driven off by disapproving family.”

~

But it doesn’t matter. Ian is called away for a mission three days later, and neither of them bother making false promises. If he makes it back, he’ll be there.

Malcolm meets his mother and sister at the airport alone. Jessica makes some disparaging comments about his choice of career, as always, and yet he can tell she’s proud. It helps that Ainsley makes exasperated faces behind her back. He hugs her extra tight.

The two Whitlys and one Bright have lunch at the most expensive place in town. Malcolm has been there before, and the food is good, but all he can think is that Ian would be making snarky comments the entire time if they went together. The sniper isn’t really adverse to good food. It’s the pretentiousness that annoys him. 

“Who is he?” Ainsley whispers while their mother is talking wine with the waiter. 

“What?”

“Your man.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re grinning and halfway to making googly eyes at the air every time you get distracted. So, who’s your beau?”

“I don’t have a beau,” Malcolm whispers back. Ian would die laughing if he got wind of this. 

“Tell me or I tell Mom. She’ll get it out of you.” She takes a sip of her water, glancing smugly at him over the rim.

Malcolm suppresses a sigh. She would. “His name is Ian, and that’s all you’re getting.”

It looks like Jessica is coming to a decision. 

“For now,” Ainsley insists, turning her attention back to their mother just in time. 

~ 

It’s a relief to leave them both to go on a shopping spree. He knows he’ll be interrogated by his sister at some point, but with the two of them heading back to NYC as soon as his graduation is over, he has some time to mull over what he’ll tell her. 

Now, he’s waiting in the lobby of a local hotel. Gil and Jackie decided to drive to Quantico after graciously declining his mother’s offer of plane tickets. Malcolm is nervous, of course. He hasn’t seen either of them since before he met Ian, and he’s kept the phone calls to a minimum in an effort to keep the two men separated in his mind. 

“Hey city boy.” The voice is smooth, fond, and painfully recognizable. Gil stands in front of him, hands in his jacket pockets, His goatee is the same as ever, still dark and full like his hair, and the grin he sports is genuine.

He’s still attractive, Malcolm realizes, but he doesn’t feel that overwhelming fluttery feeling in his chest when he looks at the older man. Not anymore. He tables that thought to accept a hug. “Where’s Jackie?”

Gil holds him tight, clapping on his back before letting him go. “She’s getting the keys for the room.” His grin softens into something more sentimental. “Look at you, kid. FBI! We’re proud, you know.”

He ducks his head and flushes. “I wouldn’t be here without you, Gil.”

“I could say the same.” The older man throws an arm around his shoulders and guides him closer to the reception desk. “Jackie, look at this boy!”

She wraps her arms around Malcolm, catching her husband’s in the mix, and squeezes him so hard it nearly hurts. When she pulls back, she brushes her eyes. “Did he tell you how proud we are?”

“He can stand to hear it again,” Gil says. 

Well aware that he must be red, Malcolm clears his throat. “I’ll let you two get settled in your room. I have to report in soon anyway.” 

“Dear,” Jackie says, turning to Gil, “could you bring the suitcase up? I’ll be right behind you.”

He salutes her with a wink and a grin and leaves the two of them alone in the lobby.

Jackie watches him go, only facing Malcolm as soon as she’s sure he’s gone. “Is your boyfriend coming tonight, sweetheart?”

“Not tonight,” he says, a little sad. “He had to work.” When all he gets in response to that is a worried look, he clarifies, “He works with the Bureau. He didn’t want to miss it, I promise.”

“Okay.” She looks somewhat relieved. Giving him another hug, she tells him she’ll see him later before joining her husband. 

The urge to call Ian rises. Malcolm tamps it down and leaves. 

~ 

His mother hands him an absurdly large bouquet after the ceremony, ignoring how her daughter snickers when it nearly obscures his face. They have to leave immediately if they’re going to make it back in time for Ainsley’s exams. 

Malcolm gives them each a hug. 

“We might need to stop at your apartment before dinner,” Gil jokes, standing next to him. He chuckles when Jackie pokes his shoulder.

“Funny.” Malcolm rolls his eyes. “I’ll leave them in the car while we eat.”

He directs them to a nice restaurant, one that’s not as fancy as his mother would demand but nice enough that they wouldn’t stick out too much with the clothes they chose for his graduation. The waiter puts them at a small table in the corner. It’s intimate. Gil and Jackie take the seats along the wall, Malcolm sitting on the outside, and in the middle, their legs lightly brush together in the close quarters underneath. 

Being there with them settles him. It’s not unlike being a kid again, basking in the love the Arroyos share, watching them flirt and smile and laugh. He insists on paying for their dinners, not taking no for answer, and so Gil indulges with steak and Jackie salmon. They eat and they reminisce. 

Not once does Malcolm feel that old embarrasing heat when his foot brushes Gil’s leg. Nor when the cop gets out of the car in front of the agent’s apartment to give him one last hug. He and Jackie have to leave early in the morning, almost as soon as they wake up. 

“Go call him,” Jackie murmurs in his ear during her hug. “You’ve been missing him all night.”

Malcolm holds her tighter. He has, but he can’t call Ian, not while he’s on a case. He waits outside until the car disappears around the corner, leaving him alone with his thoughts. 

His crush on Gil is not nearly as strong as it used to be. Deep down, he knows why. Ian has made an impact on his life. He’s grown past his initial role, taken more and more of Malcolm’s attention, and left a hole whenever he’s away. Malcolm can’t even think of the last time he imagined Gil in Ian’s place. 

He bites his lip and climbs the stairs to his apartment. He unlocks the door, wedging the bouquet under his arm.

Waiting for him in the kitchen is Ian. He’s shirtless and barefoot and eating cold pizza without a plate. As soon as he sees Malcolm, a smug smile spreads across his face. “Are those for me?” He gestures at the flowers with his half-eaten slice. 

“You’re back.” It’s all he can say, all he can think.

“I told you I would try my best to be there for your big day.” Ian sets the pizza back in the container he took it from. He stalks forward. “I’m sorry I’m late, Special Agent Bright.”

 _Special Agent Bright._ There’s a giddiness in his chest, and not all of it is from the title. Malcolm hangs up his jacket and loosens his tie. “How are you going to make it up to me, Agent Edgerton?”

Ian grabs his tie, deftly pulling it apart, dragging it off so that the younger man can feel the silk slide along the nape of his neck through the collar. “I have some ideas.” Tie still in hand, he leaves for the bedroom. 

His shoes land haphazardly by the door. He tugs his suit jacket off, too, letting it wrinkle in his grip. When he joins the sniper, he finds him fully naked as he bends over to take out the lube and a strip of condoms. Malcolm nearly trips over himself in the rush to shuck the rest of his clothes. “Ian,” he says, pushing his hair back, nerves hitting him. “It’s just been you. I’m clean, and… I’m on birth control. Good, strong birth control.”

They’ve not talked about this. The monogamous quality of the not-relationship they’re in was an unspoken thing in recent months, because neither one of them wanted to ruin what they had by bringing it up. Malcolm doesn’t even know if Ian would be interested in going bare. He just knows that he himself wants it now, more than ever. 

There’s an extra curl to the sniper’s lips as he drops the condoms back into the drawer and gets into bed. “You want me to fill you up, Special Agent Bright? Fuck you full?”

Malcolm shivers and nods. 

Ian leans back against the pillows and waits, one hand slowly stroking his cock. “Come over here. You’re going to ride me, tonight.” 

The bed cradles his knees. He kneels by the sniper’s side, and when the man snaps open the lube, he holds out a hand, eager to get started. It’s cold, but he can’t wait. His body jolts at the first touch. He gasps.

Ian squeezes the base of his own cock, watching. 

As the lube warms up against his hole, Malcolm relaxes, breathing deep as he eases one finger in. And then another. He thrusts and stretches and adds a third fairly quickly. 

“You’ve been busy while I was gone,” Ian observes.

“I missed you.” A fourth. “I _definitely_ missed your dick.” 

“Then come over here, Special Agent.” Ian strokes himself once more before letting go.

Malcolm moves closer, swinging a leg over his waist until the sniper has a lap full of him, cock sliding against his wet hole. Reaching back, the younger man uses his lube slick hand to grasp it. They both moan as his ass settles against Ian’s groin. “Fuck, Ian.”

He chuckles. The discarded necktie comes back into play now, the delicate satin snug around Malcolm’s dick and balls. He grips his lover’s hips. “Move when you’re ready.”

Holding his breath, Malcolm rises a few inches. The cock in his ass drags. There’s not quite enough lube for it to be a smooth ride, but he revels in it, biting his lip as he takes him bare for the first time. 

The first few minutes go this way. Ian watches him with lidded eyes and a smirk. He loves to watch his lover flush and writhe, and there’s something making him extra sensitive tonight, something Ian suspects has to do with his request. “Good boy,” he murmurs. “There’s no rush. You’ll be sloppy by the end of the night.”

Malcolm clenches around him and squeezes his eyes shut. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Ian encourages him back up by the hips, resuming the steady pace he was building. “You’re going to milk me dry, Special Agent. We’ll fill your greedy ass. Knock you up.”

With a sob, the younger man begins to move faster. His hands find place on Ian’s chest for leverage as he works up to something frantic, using the man’s cock to sate his urges. 

Ian removes the silk as his orgasm builds.

Malcolm makes a gutteral noise. He drops down, his ass spasming and his cock jerking, ruining the necktie with streaks of come. The hands on his hips hold him down firmly.

Ian fucks up into him as he chases his own release, filling him soon enough.

When everything is over, when they both still and catch their breath, Malcolm lets himself slump down into Ian. “I think I love you,” he slurs, tired and pleasantly overwhelmed. 

The sniper runs a hesitant hand down his back. “Me, too, Malcolm.” Carefully, he rolls them over and pulls out, inspecting where they were joined to make sure his lover didn’t prep himself too little. He reaches into the side drawer and pulls out the gray plug. Lubing it up, he gently pushes it into Malcolm before anything has the chance to leak out. 

“Ian?” 

“I told you I’d make you sloppy, didn’t I? I don’t think you’ve caught yet. The night isn’t over,” he says smugly. He wanders out to clean himself up and come back with a washcloth as usual, but when he sits on the edge of the bed, the cockiness is gone. “Months ago, I asked you to be patient with me.”

Malcolm sits up, silent.

“I told you I don’t do relationships,” Ian continues. He looks over at his lover and smiles wryly. “You got under my skin, rich boy. I’m ready.” 

“Ian…” He wanted this. He _wants_ this. He never thought he would get it. The problem with that, is that now there are things he needs to consider - like his parentage. It’s one thing to find out your fuckbuddy is the secret son of a serial killer, but if they’re partners, he needs to tell Ian sooner rather than later. “I have something I need to tell you first.” He crosses his legs, subconsciously hunching in on himself.

Sensing the seriousness of the subject, Ian stays silent to let him talk. 

“I wasn’t born Malcolm Bright.” He swallows, first looking at the sheets and then back up at his lover. He can’t hide from this. “The name on my birth certificate was Malcolm Whitly. My parents’ names are Jessica and Martin Whitly.” He tucks his hair behind his ear with a shaky hand. “When I was ten, my father was arrested and convicted of twenty-three counts of murder. I changed my name before applying to Quantico.”

“Your father’s the Surgeon,” Ian says neutrally. 

Malcolm nods.

“I was halfway across the country when he was caught, although I remember seeing the news. I’ve never met the man.”

“You don’t want to.”

“But,” Ian continues, “I’ve met plenty of killers. Plenty of sadists, plenty of men who think they’re a god.” He looks him straight in the eye. “I’ve met you, Malcolm. You’re not a killer. A little fucked up, sure. Plenty of people say the same about me.” He smiles grimly. “You have to be, to be in the Bureau.”

Malcolm laughs. “I worshiped him, Ian. I only stopped seeing him when I applied. Why they accepted me, I’ll never know.”

“He’s your father.” Getting up, the sniper moves around the bed until he can sit down next to the younger man. “I’m not dating him. I’m dating _you_ , and I’m telling you you’re not going to follow his path.”

He can feel the mortifying sting of tears building up, and so he screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth. Gil and Jackie always reassured him he was nothing like Martin. Part of him refused to believe them the same way that part of him doesn’t want to listen to Ian now, but they knew him then. Ian only met him as an adult, as someone learning how to take down killers. He’s not that quiet, helpless child anymore.

Ian pulls him into his chest. “I’ve got you, Malcolm.”

(Later that night, after all of his tears are dried, Ian replaces the plug with his cock and makes love to him, all slow kisses and soft praises until they fall asleep entwined.)

~

#### 2013

#### Wyoming

Being in an official relationship is not much different than what they already had. Something in Malcolm has eased with the label, but the way they work is almost the same. They typically eat at his apartment or at the cafe, they fuck, they sleep together, they talk about cases. Now, however, Malcolm has cases of his own to discuss, and the fucking is sometimes more gentle than it used to be. 

The worst change is the amount of time they get together. The FBI isn’t going to match their schedules up, not when both of them are needed at unpredictable times, and so they often go more than a month at a time without seeing each other and occasionally two or more weeks without talking. 

It takes an entire year for Ian to successfully request Malcolm on a case. They both knew not to expect it right away, even though Ian proved to them that his lover’s insights _did_ speed up a handful of cases during that period of time. The Bureau wanted to know that Malcolm himself was capable, that he could work with other agents, too. It was a rocky road, but he managed it. He’s good.

They take the flight out together.

The man they’re after is decent with a gun, but he’s no sniper. No, he’s holed up in the woods, a survivalist with all of the skills he needs to keep himself hidden and fed for lengthy periods of time without resurfacing, which is where Ian comes in. They know his name and what he looked like two months prior. An escaped convict, he has plenty of reason to hide.

The plan, as rough as it is, is for Malcolm to do a deep dive into the convict’s file and give Ian a way to narrow his search. He digs in as soon as they’re in the hotel where they’ll stay for the first night. In the morning, they’ll meet with the task force. Malcolm begins with the little information they have on his childhood. It’s mostly a collection of names, places, and dates, but he takes it all in. 

At some point, Ian leaves to pick up dinner, smiling fondly at his focused partner. 

The next reports in the stack are slightly more useful. They include facts about the convict’s former marriage and his ex. There are little insights from friends and coworkers, though it’s still mostly surface information. The juiciest bits are his prison records. Malcolm reads every single disciplinary report, every summary by guards and even one by the warden himself. Hell, he can see what kind of food the man ate and what he bought from the commissary. He’s still knee deep in reports when a chicken sandwich appears just next to the spread of files across the bed. He eats with one hand and takes notes with the other.

~

By the next morning, he has an idea of where to find their convict. It’s a bit of a stretch, but the man’s ex’s grandparents had an old cabin in the area. The paperwork claims the building has been abandoned for decades, that the owners couldn’t keep up with the repairs, that it’s in horrible condition. 

It sticks out to Malcolm immediately. 

And Ian listens to him, despite there being no evidence the man was ever there. He sets off to canvas the area. He tracks better alone.

Meanwhile, Malcolm meets with the task force, copious notes tucked in his bag and a need to prove himself. He knows Ian has worked with some of these people before and has a healthy respect for them. 

The lead agent, Agent Wilson, cuts him off right away. “We have our own profiler,” she tells him, her mouth tight with annoyance. “I’m not sure why the Bureau —”

“Agent Edgerton requested me himself.” He’s already standing straight, but he puts on his best polite upper crust face. It’s not unusual for people to dismiss him for his age or lack of experience with the FBI. He just wishes it wasn’t happening now, on his first case with Ian. His hands are fists in his coat pockets.

She doesn’t budge. “Is that so?”

Neither will Malcolm. “I’ve consulted with him by phone in the past.” 

In the end, she begrudgingly lets him in on the discussions, though the entire task force makes it clear that his contributions are not wanted. He can’t do anything about it. Maybe if Ian was there he could, but truthfully, Malcolm knows that would make things worse. He needs to prove himself to these people or else they’ll never respect him.

~

Ian radios in six hours later with a location — unsurprisingly, the cabin Malcolm had his eye on. It’s where he tracked their convict down to, where the man sleeps, though he spends a lot of time moving around the rest of the forest otherwise. The sniper is in position to take him out if need be.

Malcolm straps himself into a tactical vest and double checks his firearm before moving into position with the rest of the task force. The goal is to bring the convict in, not kill him.

Of course, Agent Wilson, still irritated by his presence, decides to send him in to negotiate. Realistically, all he needs to do is get the man to come out just enough for Ian to wound him.

He can practically feel Ian’s eyes on him. At least he has that. Stepping up to the cabin, unarmed, no jacket, and hands in the air, Malcolm calls out the man’s name. “Trevor Bradshaw, my name is Malcolm Bright. I’m an agent with the FBI, and I’m just here to talk.”

No response.

Malcolm takes a cautious step forward.

"Don't come any closer!"

He stills. "I just want to talk," he repeats.

"How do I know you're unarmed, Agent?"

It gives him a perverse sort of glee to know that someone other than Ian is taking him seriously here. Malcolm turns in a slow circle. “I don’t have anywhere to hide a weapon, Mr. Bradshaw.”

The man finally appears then, a glimpse of a head partially obscured by the barrel of a rifle poking through a cracked window. 

Malcolm has never been religious, but he prays it’s enough for Ian to get a shot. Behind him, the other agents aim their own guns at the threat. He holds a hand out without turning around. “I know you’re feeling cooped up right now, Mr. Bradshaw. Just like you were in prison. You’ve always been more comfortable outside of walls.”

Bradshaw doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t shoot, either.

“That’s why you came here. You wanted to go back to nature. You wanted to hunt and gather your own food. You wanted freedom.” It was all in the files he read the night before, if you bothered to look.

“They barely let me outside,” the convict shouts. “It’s fucking inhumane!”

“I know,” Malcolm placates him. “You used to camp more than you slept at home.”

“This is my home!”

“Your ex-wife told you about this place, didn’t she? She grew up coming here.” He takes a moment to breathe, remembering the interviews with the Bradshaws’ friends in the files, all of the stories of failed fertility treatments and fights, ready to provoke Trevor into moving. “You both would have taken your children camping, if you had any. I’m sure they would have loved this cabin after a few repairs.”

Bradshaw snarls and fires, barely missing Malcolm, who stumbles back as soon as he sees movement. It takes seconds for Ian to get him in the shoulder. The convict screams and drops the rifle.

The task forces pours in. 

~

Hours pass before they’re allowed to go back to their hotel room for the night. Their flight is as early as they could get it, both of them itching to go back to Quantico. 

As soon Malcolm is undressed, Ian slams him into the wall, kissing him fiercely, uncaring when they’re teeth clank. “You reckless fucker,” he says with a laugh. He pulls one of the younger man’s legs up.

Malcolm complies, gripping his partner’s shoulders and lifting the other one to match. “ _Your_ reckless fucker.” 

“Are you always this infuriating out in the field?” Ian pulls a packet of lube out of his pocket and rips it open with his teeth.

He moans at the first touch against his hole. “I do what I need to,” he gasps out. 

Ian kisses him again, devoting all of the rest of his attention to stretching Malcolm out as quickly and efficiently as possible. He’s not going to be gentle tonight.

Already flushed and impatient, Malcolm breaks the kiss with a wicked look. “Fuck me, sir.”

“Remember you asked for it, Special Agent.” Ian works his fingers just a little longer despite his words, but even then, the stretch of his cock is edged with a hint of a burn.

Malcolm moans wantonly. It’s _exactly_ what he wants now. He’s riding the high of solving the case, and he needs to feel Ian.

WIth barely a build up, the sniper fucks into him, his grip on Malcolm’s legs bruising, his teeth scraping against his neck, his cock slamming into him in time with the younger man’s back rocking into the wall.

They’re loud. They’re a mess. 

They’re in love.

~

#### 2014

#### Los Angeles, California

Most of their cases are still separate, which is why Malcolm is wrapping up a case in Montana when he hears about it.

_Breaking News_  
L.A. Federal Penitentiary  
Manhunt Underway 

And Ian’s face is on the screen. It’s not the Ian Malcolm loves, not the man who smirks and teases him and sometimes grabs his ass when he walks past. It’s the stern faced sniper. The loner. They’re calling him a murderer and a fugitive. 

Something is horribly wrong. 

Malcolm has his flight booked and his bag repacked before he can fully comprehend what he’s doing, before he can think about how the Bureau will sack him for doing this. It doesn’t matter, because Ian is on the line, and he will do whatever he can to help. His case is solved anyway. All that’s left is paperwork.

He can hand it in at the L.A. office.

~

His badge gets him through the doors. It nearly doesn’t get him an audience with Agent Eppes, but Malcolm is insistent. 

“Tell him it has to do with Agent Edgerton,” he says flatly, holding back the urge to brush past the man and find Eppes himself. He’s heard stories about the man, his team, and his brother from Ian before, and he knows they’re the most likely to help him.

An exhausted man comes out to meet him. “Look, Agent…?”

“Bright.”

“Special Agent Bright, I’m not entirely sure what you can add to this situation,” the man says honestly. 

“I’m not sure either,” Malcolm admits. He feels helpless. Realistically, there’s nothing he can do. The FBI wouldn’t take his word into account, not with the knowledge that he and Ian have been involved for years. “Agent Eppes, correct? Ian said you were a friend. I’m hoping that’s still true.”

The look that Eppes gives him is accessing. He may be exhausted, but he’s still every inch the agent Ian claimed he was. “He’s never mentioned an Agent Bright before.”

“Has Ian ever been one to share his lifestory?” Malcolm says wryly. “His default is to keep everything back. I promise I have his best interests at heart.” _Their_ best interests at heart. Although Ian often talked of the L.A. team, he never once indicated whether or not they would be okay with their relationship. He’s not going to mess with that.

Whatever Eppes sees in him must convince him. “We’re getting him on video as soon as my brother arrives. You can sit in if you want.”

They wait for maybe two minutes before a curly haired man comes in.

Malcolm immediately recognizes him by description. “You must be the Professor,” he says when the slightly shorter man’s eyes drift over to him. “I’m Special Agent Bright, a friend of Ian’s from Quantico.”

Thankfully, Professor Eppes shows less resistance to the idea, though that could be the time crunch. It seems he’s just as anxious to help Ian as Malcolm is.

When the stream goes live, the room looks like an empty break room. There are lockers in the back and shelves to the side. Malcolm stands behind the seated Professor, waiting impatiently to get a glimpse of his partner.

Ian is angry. He’s clothed in orange, a prison number on his chest and an identification bracelet on his wrist. He stalls when he sees Malcolm. “Hey rich boy,” he says, and while it might sound plain to everyone else, the man in question can hear the longing and desperation in it.

“Ian,” he replies, swallowing. “I believe in you.” _I love you_.

The sniper nods before turning back to the Professor. 

~

Naturally, Agent Eppes doesn’t let him do whatever he wants. He doesn’t trust him yet, not really, and so he assigns Malcolm the grunt work. 

He and Betancourt sift through all of the files pertaining to their missing prisoner they can get their hands on. She’s tough and a little cynical, but she does believe Ian is innocent, and he appreciates that. She flatout tells him that she can’t find fault with the facts the tracker at the prison said about him. She just doesn’t think Ian is the type to go rogue.

Malcolm laughs. “Ian’s a loner at heart, yes, but he has friends. He definitely doesn’t sleep at a different place each night.” Most nights he’s in Quantico, he’s at Malcolm’s. Otherwise, he’s no different to any other agent. “He’ll be pleased to hear you have such a good opinion of him, Agent Betancourt.”

Soon enough they find a lead. Again, Eppes asks him to step aside.

Malcolm finds the break room and waits, pacing. Occasionally, Betancourt comes in and they work on something else. Looking at footage, at names, figuring out where the missing man could have gone. 

They _do_ let him tag along to the prison once it becomes clear what’s really going on.

~

It shouldn’t be a big deal, but Malcolm is more nervous to see Ian than he has been since he was still a trainee. He’s still sweaty from running through the halls with the two local agents, his hair loose and his suit wrinkled.

A guard walks Ian down the hall. 

Malcolm’s attention focuses in on him and only him. 

“Special Agent,” Ian says fondly. He reaches out and hugs the younger man tight, the strength of his grip belaying how much he missed him. “Thank you.”

“Ian,” Malcolm murmurs into his ear as he clutches back at him. 

When they separate, the sniper pulls him in again, this time for a kiss, a languid, loving kiss like the ones they share after particularly dangerous missions. “Any chance of a conjugal visit?”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “On prison sheets? I can wait.”

“We’ve fucked on worse.” Ian kisses him a second time, just a quick one.

Agents Eppes and Betancourt are waiting for him, eyebrows raised at the interaction but otherwise not fazed, so Malcolm says goodbye to his partner and takes the unspoken offer of a ride. 

He _will_ see Ian soon, and he won’t be in orange this time. 

~

It takes four days to get the sniper released. 

In the meantime, Malcolm is reprimanded, but it amounts to little more than a slap on the wrist. He did finish his case and turn in his paperwork after all. So the rest of his time in California is spent thinking. He politely turns down an invitation to have dinner with the Eppes family, excusing himself on the grounds that he’s not good company at the moment.

Agent Eppes sheepishly shows up at his hotel that night with a tub of leftovers courtesy of his father and refuses to leave with them. He tells him to bring the container with him when they celebrate Ian’s release. The party is apparently not optional.

Absentmindedly licking mashed potatoes off his spoon — also sent by the Eppes patriarch — Malcolm considers how to approach Ian with his proposal. This whole fuck up taught him that he doesn’t want to waste any time without the sniper. He doesn’t want Ian to visit him. He wants him to live with him.

The problem is that Ian keeps his apartment for a reason. It’s a neutral zone. He has all of the essentials there, but there’s nothing important he can’t leave at a moment’s notice. He needs that security, being who he is. Hell, he might need it even more now that the Bureau failed him. 

Malcolm, however, can be quite convincing when he wants to be. He remembers Ian’s products in his shower, his toothbrush at the sink, and thinks it might be all too easy. Besides, he knows for a fact that they both sleep better next to each other. He isn’t adverse to Ian bringing his guns over, either. (He almost wishes he hadn’t left the bulk of his own weapon collection in New York.)

The nerves still get to him. He’s a mess on the inside when he goes to pick Ian up, and the sniper can tell.

“Spill,” his partner says, newly dressed in an outfit Malcolm went out and bought for him, not wanting him to have to wear the clothes he was arrested in for his own party.

“We’ve been together for two years.” He looks at the ground as they walk through the prison hallways on their way out. The clean tupperware is under his arm, a spoon and fork rattling around inside it. “You spent most of your nights in Quantico at my place.” 

“Ah, I see. The answer’s yes.”

“I think it would be logical if — wait, what?” He stops in the middle of the hall.

“Yes, I’ll move in with you.” Ian wraps an arm around his shoulders and gets him moving again, clearly ready to be out of the prison. “You’re right, I spend more time at yours. I’ve got enough money to keep up with the rent at mine, but there’s no reason to.” He shrugs, like it isn’t a big deal. “It won’t take me long to get moved in.”

Malcolm huffs but smiles. He’s definitely going to be better company today.

~

The crew at the Eppes house is tight knit, and Ian knows every single one of them. First, he takes the time to thank the Eppes brothers and the team again. He even gets a fist bump and a “No hard feelings” from Colby. Then, he introduces them to Malcolm by first name, officially matching up all of the names from his stories with faces his partner is mostly familiar with by now. There are a few others, too.

Alan immediately takes a shine to Malcolm, though part of that comes down to the young agent tapping into his upper crust manners as he thanks him for the food. Professor Fleinhart seems just as awkward as he feels and yet insightful as well. Finally, Ian introduces him to Amita, who already has a good opinion of him from talking to Charlie. 

All in all, it’s an interesting party. There’s plenty of food, plenty of discussions on plenty of topics, and a comfortable atmosphere. Malcolm can’t help but feel out of place at first regardless, but then Ian lets drop that he plays chess. 

He’s wrangled into a game with the Eppes patriarch right away. Any remaining nerves melt off as he focuses, strategizes. He wins two games and loses four by the time Alan yawns and calls it a night, patting him on the back and telling him not to be a stranger. 

The rest of the team and team adjacents say goodbye to him, too. Don jokingly tells him to keep Ian out of trouble. 

“He’s not much better himself,” Ian says, smirking when Malcolm hides his face in the sniper’s shoulder, flushed. 

The L.A. team laughs. 

_They_ haven’t seen the young agent run full tilt and unarmed towards a man with a machete and a death wish.

~

### The snapshots.

#### 2014-2015

#### Quantico, Virginia

The Bureau gave them both a month off — as recompense for the sniper and punishment for Malcolm. 

It only takes one afternoon to empty Ian’s apartment. There’s his prepacked travel bag and three cardboard boxes. One of clothes, one of dry goods from his kitchen, and another of the rest of his hygiene products. His collection of rifles, on the other hand, is nowhere near as scant. He and Malcolm bring in case after case, lining them up against the wall that holds the weapons the younger man’s bought in the years since moving to Quantico. 

Within the week, there are racks for them. They fit in with the axes and other blades of Malcolm’s, displayed but accessible for missions and training alike. Ian’s clothes slot in beside his partner’s, too. There are so few of them that Malcolm barely has to make any room at all, and privately he decides it doesn’t have to be that way. If Ian is open to being doted on, he’ll take advantage of it. 

The biggest difference in the apartment are the pictures. Ian doesn’t have too many of them framed, his way of life for so long leading him to keep most of them in a much more portable album, but there are several, all of family. Some of them are older. The images are blurrier and the people are younger, especially the skinny little boy with the beginnings of Ian’s face. Some of them he guesses are only a few years old. In those, Ian has longer hair and perhaps one or two less stress lines. He’s smiling in every single one of them.

“That,” the sniper says, wrapping himself around Malcolm from behind and pointing at a picture of him and an older woman, “is Ina. It’s Tagalog for mother. She’s Pinay.” He points at another, this time of his mother and a man. “And that’s Ama, my father. He’s American. They met while he was stationed overseas.” One by one, Ian names his siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins until he’s covered everyone in the photos. 

It makes him long for the shoebox of things he secreted away, his stash of memories his mother would rather be forgotten. Malcolm types out a quick text to Ainsley. She took photos of the three of them when she and their mother were in town for his graduation.

His sister, thankfully, is always on her phone. She sends him three different ones. The first is them with their society smiles on, the one their mother likely had printed to put out at the house. The second is more genuine. Ainsley put an arm around his neck and pulled him close, managing to get a shot of him laughing in the process, their mother’s gaze still focused on the camera. But the third is his favorite. His hair is mussed from the teasing, his mouth pulled up in a grin. Ainsley looks satisfied even as their mother is mid eyeroll at their ridiculousness. 

That’s the one he shows to Ian. 

~

Takeout becomes sickening quickly enough. It’s one thing to eat it when they’re busy. During their first month, Ian puts his foot down, and Malcolm agrees without hesitation. But the sniper’s idea of eating in is much different than his, which means that he’s on the receiving end of dubious looks every time he snacks on something decidedly lacking in nutrition. This is the first time they’ve been together for so much time in a row while not on a job.

Ian leaves one morning and comes back with groceries.

“We have food here,” Malcolm protests weakly. 

“I’m going to teach you how to cook real food.” Ian pulls the ingredients out of their bags and sets them out on the island, putting some in the fridge for now. “Ina always made this for us when we were feeling sick. Pull out the biggest pot you have.”

Malcolm does. He has a full set of cookware even though he rarely uses it. He sets it down on the stove.

“Wash your hands,” Ian says, already jointing a raw chicken into four separate pieces. He lays them into the pot and then follows suit.

“What are we making?” Standing by the island, Malcolm waits for instructions. Whatever it is, the sniper isn’t even using a written recipe. He must have made it a million times. 

“Arroz caldo.” He pulls out a fresh cutting board and knife along with an onion, a full bulb of garlic, and a knob of ginger. “It’s rice porridge with chicken.” Before he begins prepping, Ian leads him over to the pot and points at a spot fairly high up in it. “Add water to about here, and then put the burner to medium. We want to bring it up to a boil.”

Malcolm hauls the heavy pot over to the sink to fill it up. It’s much heavier on the way back, of course, so he takes a moment to watch Ian finely chop the onion with ease. “When did you start helping in the kitchen?”

His partner scoops the onions up with his hand and the knife, dropping them into a prep bowl. “As soon as I could walk. Ina and Ama had us fetching and measuring ingredients until they trusted us with knives.” He sets the garlic bulb on the board. “I need nine cloves peeled, rich boy.”

“So you don’t trust me with a knife,” Malcolm says dryly. He picks up the bulb anyway, using his fingers to break through the outer skin and separate the cloves.

“Nope.” Ian gives him a quick peck on the lips before grabbing two different bags of rice and another prep bowl. He eyeballs the amounts and covers the mix with water. He also skims the surface of the chicken pot and turns the heat down. “Do you know how to hardboil eggs?”

Malcolm nods sheepishly. “I lived on hardboiled eggs at university.” Taking the initiative, he pulls out a smaller pot and fills it with eggs and water. He isn’t lying. Eggs were an easy protein that didn’t bother his stomach, and he took to snacking on them when he really needed it. He puts together a quick ice bath as soon as the water starts to boil.

“Better than candy.” Ian smirks, shaking his head. He goes back to the cutting board and carefully slices six of the garlic cloves into thin pieces. The remaining three he chops finely. He makes quick work of the ginger, too, peeling it with a spoon and julienning what’s left. He puts the sliced garlic into one bowl and then chopped garlic and ginger into a second. All of the prepped vegetables he slips into the fridge. “As soon as the eggs are cooling, we can take a break.”

A ‘break’ ends up being a rushed fuck on the sofa.

Ian wanders back into the kitchen in his boxers as the timer for the stock beeps. He removes the chicken and flicks the burner off. When Malcolm finally joins him, he’s already stirring the garlic and ginger mixture into the softening onions, fried garlic slices cooling on a paper towel on the side. 

“Anything I can do?” Malcolm leans against the counter next to him, loose and relaxed. 

“Drain the rice. I’ll need it here in a moment.”

The younger man dumps the wet rice into the pot when he gets the signal. “Anything else?”

“Go jump in the shower,” Ian says, his gaze hot. “I’ll join you soon.” 

Malcolm adjusts the water to a nice warmth and sheds his boxer briefs, stepping into the spray with a happy sigh, letting it wash away the residual sweat and come. He takes his time. He massages the shampoo into his hair past the point where it lathers up. His fingers really dig into his scalp to knead and scratch where he needs it. He dips his head forward to wash the suds out.

Two calloused hands grip his hips. “We don’t have too long,” Ian murmurs against his neck. He bites gently. One of his hands snakes down to grab ahold of Malcolm’s stiffening cock. He splays the other across his stomach. “You’d look so fucking good carrying my child.”

“ _Ian,_ ” he groans. He braces himself against the wall in front of him as the sniper teases him to full hardness and then jacks him until he trembles and spills down the drain. He’d slip if not for the body holding him up.

With quick but soft motions, Ian washes both of them up, ignoring his own erection for now. He scrubs his short hair while Malcolm conditions his. He’s out of the shower as soon as he can rinse himself off. There’s food to check on.

Malcolm wraps himself in a robe and follows the wonderful smell into the kitchen once he’s done.

Ian stands at the island in fresh boxers and a shirt, diligently shredding the chicken from earlier. There are two bowls by the stove, and he puts a small handful of meat into each. The burner under the pot is off now. He ladles porridge over the chicken. “Top those with the garlic chips for me,” he says as he pulls two eggs out of the ice bath and gets to work peeling them.

Malcolm sprinkles the bowls with fried garlic. “This smells amazing, Ian.”

“I’ll pass it along to Ina.” His eyes crinkle with his smile. Coming back over to their food, he nestles two egg halves into each serving, finishing each with more chicken and a few lime wedges. “Eat up, rich boy.”

He does, sharing garlicky kisses with Ian between bites. 

~

Just as Ian treats him to homecooked meals — cooking lessons, technically — Malcolm treats him in his own way. It doesn’t come in the way of diamond encrusted watches or fine tailored suits. Instead, he starts with a handful of new shirts. They’re not clingy or branded or silk. They’re just higher quality than what the sniper has, softer and smoother versions of the kind of shirts he already wears.

Ian gives him an odd look the first time. He wears them all the same. The second time, when Malcolm moves on to pants, he smirks and shakes his head. Opening the third wave of clothes — very, _very_ nice boxers — the sniper chuckles and pulls him in for a kiss. “You know I’m not here for the money, Malcolm.” It’s not a question. They both know he’s a saver, not a spender.

“I know. I like treating you.” Maybe it’s wrong, but he turns on what he knows is his best pleading face, though it’s only half manufactured. He gets a soft poke to the forehead for his trouble.

“I’m not complaining, rich boy. Just don’t go overboard.”

So Malcolm eases into more. New kitchen equipment, a nicer coat, a new rifle. On special occasions, he takes Ian out to the more expensive restaurants in the area. Which of course means that his partner needs one or two tailored sets of clothing to fit in. Malcolm reassures him truthfully that he doesn’t expect him to wear them any other time. Ian’s not impressed by the portion sizes or the atmosphere for the most part, but then the younger man spends a little extra money to get them more private tables. 

That works just fine. They sit close to one another, both dressed sharply, only having to deal with the waiter and the few tables within sight. This way, Ian can unashamedly feed Malcolm by hand. He picks up small bites one at a time and holds them out, watching intently as his partner closes his mouth around the food, lips sealing around fingers, and teases the morsel free with his tongue. 

They could do that at home, too, but there’s something about watching Malcolm in his element, something about seeing him prim and proper and yet so _slutty_. 

Most of those nights end with him on his knees fully clothed, mouth wrapped around something else.

~

It’s rare that they both have overlapping downtime. As much as they would love to spend that time wrapped around each other at home, they do spend time doing other things, too.

Like most agents, they habitually go to the gym. Ian needs to stay in shape to track and hunt and chase. Malcolm, although less active on the whole, still needs to be ready for an encounter to go sideways. They both start out with warm up stretches. 

When the sniper moves to the treadmill, Malcolm continues to stretch. He works through some more complex yoga stances. He’s up on his feet, he’s down on the ground, he’s lunging and twisting. Eventually, he winds down with breathing exercises.

Ian practically drags him home, tugging at his clothes and pressing him into the bed despite the cooling sweat. He folds Malcolm’s legs up to his chest and prepares him quickly. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses as he pushes in. “I could barely focus today, rich boy.”

Below him, the profiler grins. “Sorry, sir.” His hair is already a mess. He grips his legs and lets them relax a little, widens the spread even as he keeps them out of Ian’s way.

“Let’s see if I can’t wipe that smug look off your face,” he says lowly. He snaps his hips once, twice. He slows for another thrust, then fast again. The basic pattern stays the same, but he changes the number of thrusts each time, building Malcolm up and frustrating him in the same breath.

“Sir, please,” the younger man begs. His dick is leaking against his stomach. “ _Ian._ ”

The sniper takes pity on him, wrapping a hand around him and not letting up until both of them are satisfied.

Needless to say, they enjoy the gym.

Sometimes Malcolm also accompanies Ian to the range, though he doesn’t always shoot next to him. He knows enough of what he’s doing to not need his partner’s help anymore. Now and then they’ll just part ways at the desk and then meet there again on the way home. It’s comfortable, domestic.

On other days, the profiler takes the sniper to try _his_ favorite hobby — axe throwing. They go to a slightly different kind of range and get outfitted with axes. Or rather, Ian does. Malcolm, a one time bronze medalist in the local tournament circuit, brings his favorite with him. He guides the older man through some stretches, gives him tips. 

Ian doesn’t take to it the same way he did, but he’s there when Malcolm wins his first silver. 

~

#### 2016

#### New York City

Malcolm is tired, exhausted as he steps off the plane. He’d much rather be curled up with Ian back in Quantico than return to the birthplace of so many of his issues.

But he can’t let Gil suffer alone.

~ 

The call came in while he was checking the house, gun out and tactical vest on. His phone was on silent as always, and so he didn’t get the voicemail until he was on his way back to his hotel room, until all he wanted to do was call Ian and crash. 

_Malcolm…_ a muffled sob. _Malcolm, she’s gone. I don’t — she’s gone_.

Instead of calling Gil back, he pulled off to the side of the road and dialled his partner.

“Done so soon, Special Agent?” Ian sounded so happy.

Malcolm croaked, the words refusing to come. 

“Malcolm, are you safe?” Now, he sounded more Agent Edgerton than Ian. 

“Jackie’s dead,” he finally forced out. He doesn’t feel like himself. He barely realizes where he is, his body detached from his self. “Gil called while I was working.”

Ian swore. 

They both had worried about Jackie for months. She called one day and broke the news to Malcolm. It was cancer. There was a decent chance the treatments would help, but they hadn’t caught it right away. That day was the first time she ever talked to Ian. He’d taken the phone from a frozen Malcolm and demanded to know who was on the other line.

Jackie introduced herself and immediately pinned him as the boyfriend. She explained the situation in plain words. Before letting him give the phone back to Malcolm, who was leaning on him, still shocked, she told him that he better take care of the younger man or there would be hell to pay.

He’d agreed solemnly. He would have even if she hadn’t asked.

They kept in contact with her constantly. If Malcolm was on a case, Ian called. He got to know her just as she got to know him, and he felt a pang of grief now at the knowledge that she was gone. They’d never met face to face. It didn’t matter. He’d still mourn her.

He guided Malcolm through some basic breathing, tried to get him to calm down as he opened his laptop and searched for the soonest plane out. Ian booked him tickets and stayed on the line.

Malcolm drove back to the hotel, grabbed his things, checked out, and left. “I love you, Ian,” he said quietly as he dropped his rental car off at the airport.

“I love you, too. Call me when you land.”

~

There’s no reason to rent a car in the city. There are plenty of other ways to get around, and so he orders an uber and calls Ian while he waits. “I’m here.”

“Good,” the sniper says, relieved. “Are you getting a hotel room?”

Malcolm shakes his head before remembering that Ian can’t see him. “No, they always had a guest room ready for me. I think it’s best I stay with Gil anyway.” He swallows. He can’t imagine what Gil is going through, and he doesn’t want to. “I don’t think he should be alone.”

“Anything you need, Malcolm,” Ian tells him.

“I know.”

They say their goodbyes just before his driver shows up.

~

Walking up to the Arroyo residence feels odd after so many years. The last time he was in the city was right after he finished his master’s. He regrets not coming back to see everyone, but truthfully, it hurts to be here now. This city is toxic for him. There are memories everywhere, so many innocent memories of his family, of his father. 

He knocks on the door. There’s no answer, and yet, the Le Mans is parked on the street. With a sigh, Malcolm fishes out his old key and lets himself in. “Gil?”

Silence.

The cop is passed on the recliner, an empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. His eyes are swollen from crying. 

If Malcolm had to guess, he’d say he’s still wearing the same clothes he wore when Jackie passed. He shakes him awake. “Gil, come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

Gil grumbles and tries to swat him away.

Tired and impatient, the younger man grabs his arms and pulls him to his feet, stabilizing him so that he doesn’t fall. He arranges him so that one of Gil’s arms is over his shoulders. 

“Mal?” he murmurs.

“Yeah, Gil, it’s me.” He half drags him to the main bedroom. It’s a lot of work, but he even manages to get the older man out of his clothes and into an old shirt. He doesn’t bother trying to change his boxers. Malcolm tucks him in and leaves a cup of water and a bin on the nightstand before he closes the door. 

~

He gets to work in the morning. Coffee comes first, and he rummages through Gil’s pantry as it brews. Thankfully, there’s a decent amount of staple ingredients in his kitchen, probably because of Jackie, so Malcolm pulls out everything he needs for garlic rice. He’s made it so many times with Ian that he knows it by heart.

More importantly, it reminds him of home. If he was in Quantico, the sniper would probably be making the rice now while he stayed in bed, justified in his laziness after the stress of his last case. Closing his eyes, he can imagine it. The smells are here, and his mind easily conjures up the feeling of Ian curling up next to him with a hot bowl.

He sips his coffee and pulls out the eggs. He’s here for Gil and Jackie, not himself. Gil, who needs someone to help him survive his grief. Jackie, who trusted Malcolm to take care of him.

When the man in question stumbles into the kitchen, he stops and stares at the rumpled agent. “I thought I was dreaming,” he says, dropping into a chair. He rubs his eyes. “Is that garlic rice I smell?”

Malcolm pours him a cup of coffee. “I've learned to cook.”

Gil drinks silently, slouched over the table, eyes still red, face looking distinctly older in his grief. He doesn’t say anything when a steaming bowl of rice topped with two fried eggs is set in front of him, either. He starts by picking at it. Then, as he begins to realize just how hungry he is, how long it’s been since he ate, he really digs in.

It’s difficult to watch. Malcolm keeps his eyes on his own bowl, taking small bites and trying to lift his heart with thoughts of Ian.

~

He stays there for just under a week. Gil is inconsolable, unable to do what he needs to do without breaking down, so Malcolm takes over the funeral planning. He even contacts his mother and ropes her into planning the visuals. She, too, is mourning Jackie and gladly agrees to arrange flowers and food. Malcolm himself picks and pays for the casket. It’s nothing super fancy, but he does his best to choose one that feels like Jackie. 

He also takes care of her clothing, hair, and makeup. Although Gil may not be in the shape to discuss it, Malcolm knows that his wife would want an open casket service. She would want to be seen the way she was before the cancer. She would want _that_ to be the last way everyone she loved remembered her. So he sorts through old photo albums until he finds the best pictures and sends copies off to the business he chose. The dress is even easier. He picks her favorite date night dress, the one that always made her feel as gorgeous as she was. 

Gil doesn’t ask about the funeral once. Instead, he just lets Malcolm take care of him. He eats what the younger man gives him, barely blinking an eye at the fact that so much of it is the kind of food he grew up eating. He showers and changes his clothes when directed. He sits absolutely still while Malcolm cleans up his goatee for him, picks out his suit, ties his tie. There’s no protest when the agent gets behind the wheel of the Le Mans, either. Gil climbs in the passenger side without a fuss and stares out the window on the way to the service. 

The viewing is absolutely gorgeous. His mother really outdid herself. Jackie’s favorite flowers line the room, and framed pictures of her smiling and laughing and kissing Gil are lovingly mingled in with them. 

Malcolm takes on the tedious job of greeting every single person who comes while the cop sits quietly at the front, head in his hands. When Jessica and Ainsley arrive, he hugs them both tight and accepts their help. 

He sits with Gil once the slideshow starts. The man holds his hand so hard it hurts and doesn’t let go until the guests are heading out, some to the actual burial and some home. Together, the two of them approach the casket for the first time. 

Jackie looks perfect. Her face is relaxed, her makeup just the way she used to do it. Her hair, Malcolm knows, is a wig, though the professionals he hired did an amazing job at recreating the pictures provided. There are flowers tucked in around her.

Gil slumps into him with a sob, burying his head into the younger man’s shoulder and muttering something over and over again inbetween the awful, pained noises he’s making.

Malcolm thinks it’s _thank you_.

~

As much as he wants to leave, as much as he wants to go through his own mourning in Ian’s arms, he stays another day or two past the service before finally exacting a promise from his mother to watch over Gil. It’s going to be a long road.

Ian meets him at the airport. He holds him without a word, letting Malcolm shed the tears he’s held back into his coat. He drives the profiler home and orders takeout. They go to bed early that night, but they don’t have sex. They cuddle and grieve, together.

### The homecoming.

#### 2019

#### Quantico, Virginia

It’s not the first time Ian’s family has come up in discussion. They’ve been serious for almost seven years now, and Ian isn’t shy about his love for them, as spread out as they are. Malcolm knows all of their names by heart now, all of their nicknames, all of their faces. He’s even contributed gifts, little things that remind him of the stories Ian tells, whenever his partner sends out packages for special occasions, and they’ve sent things for him in return. One of his favorite ties was picked out by Ian’s niece.

He’s talked to them, too, on Ian’s birthday and on holidays. He makes awkward small talk and doesn’t bother to hold back on his love for the sniper, because he can tell just how much it means to them to hear he’s happy, even so far away.

But he never joins Ian on trips. Most of the time, Ian plans those visits around his cases, anyway, taking advantage of the Bureau sending him close to family, and Malcolm is only occasionally working with him now that he’s started to make a name for himself. Not that either of them is blind to his reluctance to take that step at all. 

It doesn’t matter how many times Ian assures him that they’ll love him, that on the off chance they don’t, it won’t change his own feelings. It doesn’t matter that they always seem thrilled to hear his voice over the phone. Or that they love their gifts and make a sincere effort to send him things he would like. He’s convinced that he’ll mess it up. He won’t be able to live up to the image they have of him, of the perfect unbroken man in love with their son. They’ll realize he’s unfit, awkward, and worst of all, a destructive part of Ian’s life. 

They won’t want him in their family, and they especially won’t want him tying Ian down with children. Although they haven’t talked about it seriously, Malcolm knows Ian wants kids at some point, that he loves his nieces and nephews and longs for his own. And Malcolm _does_ want kids. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe he shouldn’t pass his genes down or have any part in raising a child. He still wants a family, however, and most of all, he wants one with Ian. 

So, understandably, he’s apprehensive to hear that they’ll be visiting. 

“Delilah’s turning five in two months,” Ian tells him as if Malcolm hasn’t already shown him the cute sundress he bought her while on his last case. “I haven’t visited them in a while, and they thought it would be nice to bring the party to us.”

 _Us._ Malcolm focuses on the onions he’s slicing, careful not to cut himself. “What if the Bureau needs you?”

“Unless it’s a long one, they’ll stick around.” If the younger man looked up, he’d see Ian grin as he skewers the chicken they marinated earlier. “And the Bureau owes me one.”

“They owe you more than that,” Malcolm says darkly. He doubts he’ll ever be able to forget what the sniper looked like in orange. He takes a slow breath. “What if the Bureau needs _me?_ ”

“They’ll wait for you, too.” Although there’s more chicken in the bowl, the older man washes his hands and comes up to his partner, gently taking the knife from his white knuckled grip. “They will love you,” he says firmly. “They already do, especially Ina. She always asks if I’m taking care of you right. I think she likes you more than she likes me.”

Malcolm doesn’t laugh.

“Malcolm, I can tell them to back off.” And he means it, too, the tone of his voice a promise.

“ _No,_ ” the profiler says immediately. “They’re your family. I’m not going to make you send them away.”

Ian hands him the knife again, a concerned and doubtful look on his face. “Try not to bottle it up, rich boy.” 

~

The next morning, before Ian can approach the conversation again, he gets a call. They need him for a case. 

He kisses Malcolm before he flies out alone that afternoon.

Malcolm pukes in the bathroom on the way out.

~

A week passes before he gets a case of his own. In the meantime, all of his meals are small bland affairs, because his stomach continues to be a problem. He gets as much protein as he can to keep him going. His body revolts constantly.

It doesn’t help that Ian only manages to call him once. The case has him tracking a fugitive down in an area with next to no service, and he’s been brought in as the last try at what has proved to be an insanely difficult hunt. After his first night, it’s radio silence.

Malcolm welcomes the case. He throws himself into it. The local Sheriff has a list of victims for him but not much else, and so he spends hours pouring over the files, the photos provided by family, anything and everything. He visits a few of the victims’ relatives, too.

As he sits at one’s brother’s kitchen table, a mug of coffee in hand, waiting for the grieving man to come back from the bathroom — “Morning sickness,” the husband told him sheepishly — Malcolm has a painful realization.

He’s pregnant. He has to be.

~

The thought distracts him for the rest of the case, throws him off his game, makes him more snappy than he usually is. All he wants to do is talk about this with Ian and figure out what to do. No, actually, he needs to be sure first. He needs to confirm that he’s pregnant before he even approaches the topic.

Then the FBI fires him. 

Malcolm walks back to his — _their_ — apartment, his hands shaking, his eyes wide, his pulse kicked up with the anger still firing around inside him. He takes one look at the wall of their rifles and axes and screams. He kicks his luggage. He pulls his hair, drops to his knees and clenches his teeth. 

How could he be so _stupid?_ He fucked up. He fucked up so badly that he’s managed to destroy his life in the process. After all, he most certainly does not deserve Ian now. They flat out told him he was his father’s son when they fired him, which means they won’t consider taking him back. Hell, they probably only kept him on as long as they did because of Ian. With the sniper on a long mission and unable to rein him in, they cut their losses. Now he’ll be a stain that lingers on Ian’s record, follows him through the halls. The best case scenario is that the man quits in response. 

Malcolm won’t let him do that.

And what would his family think? The Edgertons and all of their offshoots may already think he’s a decent catch for Ian, but they won’t even have to meet him to know the truth now. They’ll know he’s a failure. A fucking mess of a person. His hand drifts down to his flat stomach. They might still love the baby, if there is one. It won’t change how they’ll feel about him. They’ll undoubtedly be worried about _him_ raising the child.

He can’t put Ian in that situation, either. Malcolm thinks back to how he almost died in that slaughterhouse and realizes that he nearly fucked up the sniper’s life then, too. If he died… especially if he is pregnant, Ian would have been wrecked.

Pulling himself off the floor, the profiler wipes away the tears he didn’t know he shed with the backs of his hands. He picks up his luggage and puts it by the door. Then he fires up his laptop and express orders a stack of empty boxes. 

~

By the time the boxes come in, he has no tears left. His eyes ache. Still, he ignores it and methodically packs up everything he needs — clothes, mostly, and a few pictures and trinkets he can’t leave behind. It doesn’t amount to much. He rented it furnished, so he didn’t have to worry about taking any of the furniture with him, and anything else in the apartment, he would leave for Ian. He didn’t want to strip it bare. 

As it is, he’s reluctant to take Sunshine with him, to take her away from his partner, but the bird was a gift from Ian, and he can’t leave her behind. He feeds her and lets her out, needing her company.

Lastly, Malcolm makes two calls. One to a moving company that will move his boxes to New York safely and quickly, and another to Ian. Ian won’t answer, not while he’s still on the hunt, but Malcolm doesn’t _want_ him to. He can’t do this when the sniper can talk back. He’ll convince Malcolm to wait, to not do this. He’ll make it much more difficult to break away cleanly. 

The voicemail picks up. “Ian,” he says, his voice cracking. He stops and swallows and centers himself. “I’m sorry for this.” And he truly is. Ian deserves better. “It’s over. We can’t be together anymore. I’ll be moved out by the time you get back, but the apartment is paid in full for the next six months.” He hangs up before he can take it back. 

His flight is in the morning.

~

One of the first things he does in New York is call his old OB and set up an appointment. He doesn’t trust an over the counter test right now, not when he’s so off kilter. Thankfully, she can fit him in for a rush visit. 

He opens up his old loft and is relieved to find it mostly in the same condition. There are cloth covers to remove, dusting to do, and sheets to change, but otherwise, he just has to set Sunshine’s cage up, empty out his boxes, and fill the fridge. He makes sure there’s plenty of food in the cage before he leaves for his appointment.

~

 _Negative_. 

The test is negative, and Malcolm doesn’t know how to feel about that. He should be happy. There’s no decision to make, not need to contact Ian about a child, no guilt to feel if he would decide not to. It can be a true break. 

(He wanted that baby. He wanted _Ian’s_ baby.)

He calls Ainsley on the way out and tries not to think about it.

~

Gil is waiting for him by the Le Mans. He looks happy, nothing like the last time they saw each other. Something in him has eased in the three years since Jackie’s death, and he’s as relaxed as he used to be, grinning, eyes crinkling at the sight of the younger man. He goes in for a hug immediately.

Malcolm pulls him in tight in an effort to hide the tears that threaten to fall. Even years later, the resemblance is uncanny. God, he misses Ian. At least the cop kept the goatee.

They separate, and Gil pulls him into a case, pulls him back into his life, pulls him back into _Martin’s_ life. He barely endures it, already wounded and falling apart. But the profiler can’t walk away himself. He needs something to hold onto while he finds his feet again.

~

 _Malcolm, I need you to call me back and talk to me. You can’t do this over the phone._ A beat. _Please_.

Ian calls every day for weeks. Sometimes the messages are short observations, things that made him think of Malcolm. Sometimes they’re soft and desperate and longing. On a few notable occasions, they’re angry, not at Malcolm, but at the FBI. Ian rages about what the Bureau did to both of them, and he contemplates quitting once and for all. There are plenty of other ways he could keep up with his skills including camping and teaching. 

Those are the calls that Malcolm fights with himself not to return. He listens to every single one of them. Every few nights, he deletes a few after committing them to memory, not wanting to lose any of them but unable to save them all and still have space for more. He’s sure Ian will continue to leave voicemail after voicemail if the inbox has room. 

Each message is meant to coax him back, to get a response, to show that he is still loved, and yet that’s not what Malcolm gets out of it. He lies in bed at night, cuffed in, and listens to his inbox. He lets Ian’s pain add to his own. He wallows in the guilt and longing and self-deprecation, is reminded of how badly he fucked up, of how stupid he was for thinking he could have someone like the sniper. 

~

Gill has always been a tactile man. He was like that with Jackie, soft brushes of his hand against her or a kiss on the lips or the temple every few minutes. He’s like that with Malcolm, too, and has been since they met. A strong squeeze of the shoulder, an affectionate hand on the neck, the occasional big hug. If anything, he touches him more now.

It drives Malcolm insane. As a teenager, that contact fueled his most shameful fantasies, and now it does double duty by reminding him of Ian. His body is touch-starved after seven years of the sniper’s touch cut off cold turkey. Every time Gil touches him, he relaxes instinctually, thinking of Ian, feeling the love he still can’t shake off, before the reality catches up with him. 

~

 _I’m in L.A. this week. The Eppes family asked about you — all of them._ Ian sighs. _I miss you, rich boy. I’ll wait as long as you need_.

The calls don’t come as frequently as they used to. Oh, the older man still leaves a message about once a week if he’s not on a case, but it’s a noticeable decrease from the every day calls. Ian always ends with the promise that he’ll wait.

Malcolm dreads the day that promise falls through.

~

Deep down, he knows that Gabrielle is right, even if sex isn’t all he needs. His dreams cycle between horror and horniness. 

Tonight he’s blindfolded and tied to the bed while a larger man rims him until he’s squirming. Sometimes he’s certain he feels a beard brush against his ass, sometimes the face feels bare. The hands holding his cheeks apart are achingly familiar, but he can’t pinpoint whose they are, can’t figure out if this is built on a memory or a fantasy or both.

A cock replaces the tongue. He’s stretched and filled and loved, Gil&Ian moving just the way he needs them to, teasing him with slow rolls of the hips interspersed with quick snaps. They don’t speak, so there’s no difference in tone or word choice to help him discern who it is. They just love him and fill him up, a possessive hand splaying across his stomach.

He wakes up with tears on his face and come in his boxers.

~

Of course they send Colette. Of all of the profilers they could have sent, they had to send the one that hated him. She has nothing but sneers for him the moment she steps foot in the precinct. 

Gil stands beside him, supportive but also cooperative. They don’t want to lose this case entirely.

Colette laughs cruelly when she gets a good look at the Lieutenant. “Still fucking your way to the top, Special Agent? Oh, wait, that’s right. You’re not an agent anymore.”

His whole body is taut with rage, but he refuses to act on it, knowing it would only make the situation worse. He smiles tightly and walks away in the hopes that he can be the better person here. He wants to tell her, tell Gil and the team that that’s a blatant lie. That Ian _never_ pulled strings for him, that Malcolm himself never looked at the sniper as a step up in his career. He loved him.

Loves him. 

~

He goes to the Watkins house with Shannon.

### The collision.

#### 2019

#### Washington, D.C.

Every single day, Ian reminds himself to be patient. It kills him that he hasn’t seen Malcolm in months, but he knows that he would only spook the younger man if he found him and showed up unannounced. And Ian could find him. He spent too many years with Malcolm to not be able to track him down. He has a strong suspicion that it would be all too easy, that his former partner went back to the only other place he’s called home. 

Malcolm Bright is in New York City. He’s sure of it.

Ian stays in Quantico, only ever drifting closer to Malcolm for cases, keeping his distance even as he diligently leaves voicemails. Hearing the short recorded greeting helps him follow through. He tries not to ask too much. It’s difficult. He’s had a ring burning a hole in one of his rifle cases since before everything went to shit, though, and he thinks about it whenever the urge to book a flight crops up. The more he rushes this, the less likely Malcolm will ever wear it. 

He’s thinking about it on his way out of a briefing at the Bureau when he runs into her. He knows who she is — Colette Swanson. She was in the same class as Malcolm, and ever since the first time they had to work together, they’ve clashed, which meant that Ian has heard _plenty_ about her. “Agent Swanson.”

“Agent Edgerton.” She almost seems amused to see him. “It’s funny seeing you here. I just came back from a case in New York.”

There’s an expectant edge to her words, but he’s fresh off an isolated hunt and hasn’t heard anything about anyone’s cases yet. “It’s a lovely city,” he says blandly.

“I wouldn’t recommend visiting anytime soon. Your boytoy has already found a replacement.” With that, she brushes past him, not bothering to wait for a response.

His heart aches even as he tells himself to ignore her words. She hates Malcolm, and he refuses to take her words at face value, refuses to give up when his voicemails are still going through. 

So he keeps an ear out. If her case was as big as her demeanor insinuated, there will be gossip, and there’s no more interesting twist than a young ex-agent being involved, especially one who was fired not that long ago. No one talks when he’s there. Or at least, not when they _know_ he’s there. Ian stalks around the building, hunting for information. 

The name John Watkins comes up a lot, though not as often as the Junkyard Killer. 

He files away both. The latter he has heard of. It was a case brewing in New York, something about an unknown serial killer and a junkyard full of bones. He can’t be surprised Malcolm got involved.

The profiler’s name is finally mentioned by an agent he vaguely remembers as being another one of Malcolm’s peers. “Bright always was a crazy fucker,” he whispers to a younger agent. “He was a little too interested in killers.”

Ian settles in around the corner, ready to move if the voices get closer.

“I’m glad they sacked him before he could snap,” the agent continues. “Rumor mill says he stuffed Watkins in a box. I doubt even the Bureau could leash that kind of nutcase for too long.”

There’s more to the story. He knows there is just as he knows that Malcolm wouldn’t do that without any provocation, because unlike Ian, he always tried to save his suspects. He always wanted to believe they could be better. Whatever this Watkins did, it pissed Malcolm off or, at the very least, put him in a situation where he had to use force. 

Ian turns the corner as soon as he’s heard enough, brushing past the agent hard enough to make him stumble into the wall. “Keep the gossip out of the halls, Agent,” he calls back sharply without looking.

He goes to the range, done listening and gathering and ready to relieve some stress. It’s likely the only people who know the truth are Colette, Watkins, and Malcolm himself. 

~

#### 2020

#### Quantico, Virginia

There’s a sniper in NYC. Both reported casualties to date are cops, and their pictures appear on screen as the reporter talks about the devastation both families are going through.

Ian checks his luggage, tucking the ring box in before he can think it over any longer, and goes to sleep. He’ll head out to the D.C. office as soon as he wakes up. It’s possible they’ll be reluctant to send him knowing his history with Malcolm, but with a cop killer and mounting panic on their hands, they won’t have much room to refuse. 

~

#### New York City

The precinct is a mess. No uniformed officer wants to leave, the fear of becoming an instant target palpable in the air. The detectives and higher ups are only slightly less agitated, because while their clothing won’t give them away, many of them are known in the area, some having been seen on the news during investigations. Not a single cop in the city feels safe right now.

Gil swings by the loft in the morning to pick Malcolm up. They’re sticking in pairs until the sniper is caught — JT should be on his way to Dani’s, too. He idles at the curb while he waits. Part of him wants to text Malcolm again and tell him to stay in for the day, for the week. He’s still healing from the Watkins debacle, so it would be justified, but the more logical side of him knows the best place for the profiler to be right now is by his side, where he can’t so easily wander through the city for the sniper to find him.

Although Malcolm isn’t officially a cop, he’s been seen and mentioned on the news too much to dismiss the possibility of him becoming a target. The young man slips into the passenger side with a smile. 

It certainly doesn’t help Gil’s conscious that he feels light seeing him so genuinely happy, even if it’s just to go to work. He’s pulled Malcolm into too much danger already this year. In the last few _months_. The problem is that cutting him off now that he’s in deep isn’t going to happen, not that Gil would be able to say no to him anyway. He ignores the decidedly non-platonic edge to his affection for the profiler. He loved the kid before and already had a hard time saying no, but time and distance and growth changed the nature of his love.

It started with the uncomfortable realization that Malcolm was quite an attractive man. He hadn’t really grown into his looks the last few times they saw each other, or maybe Gil was still distracted by Jackie both by means of love and grief. Seeing him that day, his first day back in the city in three years, walking with his sister as if he never left — the Lieutenant found himself struck dumb. 

That day was also the first time he ever saw Malcolm in action. He knew from the occasional phone call that he was doing well for himself, but Gil was proud to be able to confirm it was true. As time went on, pride turned into lowkey arousal turned into what felt uncomfortably like love. His eyes were always drawn to the profiler as he worked. He forced himself to dismiss it initially, knowing that Malcolm would never return his affection in the same way.

Then Watkins happened. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just thinking about it, about the sheer fear he felt while he was missing — taken — and then again while he was in the hospital, the doctors dealing with his stab wound and all of the grime that threatened to make it more serious. 

After that, it was impossible to ignore his feelings.

“Gil?” Malcolm says, concerned, likely from how tense the Lieutenant is. 

“It’s been a crazy couple of months,” is all he offers in return.

~

Before they can gather in the conference room to go over the case so far, the captain pulls him aside to let him know they’re getting FBI help — a sniper to catch a sniper. It should be good news. Gil reminds the team that it _is_ good news. 

All of them are still sore from the Watkins case, the Lieutenant included. 

Malcolm, however, takes it the hardest, his face white and his jaw set.

“You okay, kid?” Gil says quietly.

“I’ll be back.” He plasters on the best smile he can manage and leaves for the bathroom. There, he splashes water on his face, careful not to get his suit wet. The only person he can think of that they would send for a cop killer case is Ian. He pulls out his phone, and sure enough, there’s a voicemail he ignored this morning.

 _Malcolm, I’m headed your way for a case. I wanted to give you advance warning_.

Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, Malcolm tries to breathe. He’s missed Ian so much, and part of him desperately wants to see him, but this is bad. He can’t do this. There are reasons he couldn’t break up with him in person.

When he walks out of the bathroom, he sees him.

Ian is at the front desk, sunglasses on and gear at his feet as he talks with the secretary. He’s a little thinner than he was so many months ago. His clothes, ones that Malcolm bought for him, would look fine on him if you didn’t know how he used to fill them out. His hair is longer, too, though not by much.

Instead of ducking back into the bathroom like he wants to, Malcolm walks up to the desk and nods at the secretary. “I can show Agent Edgerton where to go from here.” He heads for the conference room without making sure he’s being followed.

“Special Agent Bright,” Ian murmurs behind him.

Malcolm stops. “It’s just Bright now.” God, hearing his voice so close, without the intermediary of voicemail is painful. How did he fuck this up so badly?

“Okay,” Ian says, his tone bland on the surface but simmering with something angry underneath. 

Instinctually, the profiler knows it isn’t directed at him. He begins to walk again when the sniper opens his mouth.

“How are you healing? Is it just the hand?” 

Malcolm touches the brace and sighs. “I see the rumor mill is still up and running.” Of course Ian would have heard about Watkins. Of course he would know that Malcolm was involved.

“Malcolm, look at me.” It doesn’t hold the same authority it would have if they were still together, if Ian still knew he would accept it. 

But the pain in his words is enough to convince the younger man, who turns to face him. “He stabbed me here.” He lays his unhindered hand over the healed wound. “I broke my hand to get free. I’ll be out of the brace in a few weeks.” 

Ian nods stiffly. “I heard what you did to him.” He grins nastily. “I’m glad.”

With a hesitant smile, Malcolm leads him to the rest of the team, feeling wholly unprepared for the confrontation that could occur. He respects all of them too much to think they won’t notice the resemblance. Especially Ian.

Dani does a small double take. JT whistles, brow raised.

Gil is still, quiet.

“Everyone, this is Agent Ian Edgerton. He’s the sniper the Bureau sent to work with us.” He brushes his hair back. “Ian, this is Lieutenant Arroyo and Detectives Powell and Tarmel.” Although they aren’t touching, he can practically feel Ian’s shock, the way he freezes every so slightly.

He recovers soon enough. “I’m not here to take over your case,” the sniper says. “I know it was your people killed. I’m just here to help catch this bastard faster.”

“Ian teaches at Quantico when he’s not in the field. He knows what he’s talking about,” Malcolm adds. 

Gil sips his coffee instead of talking.

Dani leans back in her seat and squints. “Wasn’t there a manhunt for you a few years ago?” 

“A misunderstanding. I was framed.” He sets his gear by the door and pockets his sunglasses. “And before you ask, I’m not related to any Arroyos as far as I’m aware.”

“No Edgertons in my family tree,” Gil confirms. “Thank you for joining us, Agent.” His words and his expression are at odds.

Malcolm, tense smile in place, breaks in. “I’ve been working on my profile. Now that we have two victims, both officers, both shot in crowded areas with plenty of other potential victims, I think we can say our shooter is specifically targeting law enforcement.”

“Which is why we need to solve this fast,” Gil says, grim. “If it escalates, so will the panic.”

JT shakes his head. “And the public will start wondering if we can protect anyone. Got any idea why they’re targeting cops, Bright?”

“I do!” He can feel Ian’s eyes on him, just like old times, and it settles him when the sniper doesn’t interrupt him. “Our shooter is choosing cops specifically in high population areas. They want an audience. They want to show that they can take them out without issue, that the officers are helpless. I think we might be dealing with someone who feels the NYPD has failed someone close to them. We should look for deaths in crowded areas. Ones we couldn’t prevent.”

“Our shooter is a professional,” Ian adds, nodding at Malcolm. “You can narrow that search down further to people with formal training. Hitting a specific person with a killshot from that distance in a crowd that big is a one in a million shot for someone who barely knows what they’re doing.”

~

But it isn’t as easy as it sounds. Three days later, they still have a sizable suspect pool. 

It doesn’t help that the atmosphere is tense. No one on the team seems to have eased up towards Ian, and Ian doesn’t push with any of them, but definitely not with Gil, so Malcolm becomes the go-between. 

Which makes the room tenser. 

Ian hasn’t approached him about their breakup, either. He’s been polite and professional, though Malcolm doesn’t miss the longing looks or the way he slips up and calls him Special Agent sometimes. 

He suspects they’ll be having that talk before the sniper leaves.

First, they get called to another scene. A third cop was shot.

~

All Malcolm wants to do is go to sleep. Odd, but after the day he’s had, he’d rather face the nightmares. The tension skyrocketed with the third death. News coverage certainly didn’t help, and now they’re under even more pressure to solve this case. It’s bad enough that the entire car ride back to his loft was silent, neither he nor Gil in the mood to talk.

He’s refilling Sunshine’s water when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s Ian. He’s dressed in clothes Malcolm picked for him again with his shades nowhere in sight, his eyes open to the profiler. “I just want to talk.”

“I thought we would wait until after the case.” Or until never, preferably. He doesn’t have the strength to hold out now, and maybe he never will.

“Are you going to let me in, rich boy?” the sniper says softly, like he half expects to be denied.

Malcolm knows he would leave if asked. He nods and steps away from the door, watching Ian come into his space and observe.

His ex smiles when he sees Sunshine’s cage. He unlocks it, and she happily hops out onto his hand, recognizing him from before. “I’ve missed you, girl.” He gently sets her back in her cage and sighs. “Tell me, do you love him?”

“What?” Malcolm expected to be questioned about the breakup first and Gil later, but even then he didn’t expect a question about love. Lust, sure. 

Ian catches his gaze. “Do you love the Lieutenant?”

“I had a crush on him, Ian,” he admits, not wanting to think about what the answer to the real question is. The last few months with the cop have been… difficult. He forgot just how caring Gil could be. “A stupid crush when I was younger.”

“That’s not what I asked.” The sniper half smirks at him. “Are you in love with Gil Arroyo?”

Malcolm practically yanks Ian’s face down to meet his, kissing him to shut him up. 

It’s just like old times. His ex pulls him closer and returns the favor aggressively, as if he’s trying to make up for all those months apart. He pushes him up against the nearest wall and hitches up one of the profiler’s legs, holding it up around his hip.

Head thumping against the wall, Malcolm gasps into Ian’s mouth. He hasn’t been touched like this in months, not since Ian himself last fucked him, and so he wraps one arm around the man’s shoulders, grabbing ahold of the back of his shirt, the other hand coming up to the back of his head, pulling him in closer. Fuck, he needs this. He pushes off the ground, lifting his leg up and trusting that Ian knows what he wants.

He does. The sniper helps him until both legs are wrapped around his hips. Breaking the kiss, he grins at the younger man. One hand holding onto him, Ian reaches down with his other and opens Malcolm’s pants just enough to pull out his hard dick before doing the same with his own. He adjusts his grip. He rocks his hips.

Malcolm moans as their cocks rub against each other with the movement. He digs his heels into the sniper’s back in silent encouragement.

“He was jealous,” Ian tells him with another thrust. “He wasn’t too happy to see how familiar we were.”

“What?” the profiler gasps, already leaking, making the ride smoother.

“Gil.” Ian nips at his ear. “He wants you, too, rich boy. I bet he’d join us.”

“ _Ian._ ” But he can’t help but imagine it. Would Gil mold himself up against his back? Help Ian hold him up so that they could ravage him? He whimpers.

Adjusting his grip again, the sniper fists both of their cocks loosely so that each thrust has them sliding against each other, fully in contact. “I think he’d enjoy filling you up, fucking you sloppy.”

Malcolm’s fingers dig into his back. “Fuck.”

“We could take turns.” Ian tightens his grip between them. “Guarantee you get knocked up.”

“ _Ian._ ” The profiler is shaking.

“Say his name,” Ian demands. 

Toes curling, Malcolm comes all over Ian’s fist, Gil’s name on his lips. 

“Good boy.” The sniper gently puts him on his feet, but the younger man shakes his head and drops to his knees, reaching for his still hard cock, slick with come. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He licks a stripe up the side, tasting his own spend. He swirls his tongue around the head. It’s where most of the come is. Then, leaning forward, he goes down on Ian slowly, taking it in increments as he hums and moans. 

The older man threads his fingers through soft hair and makes small thrusts into the wet heat. “God, rich boy.” He manages a handful of thrusts before he’s spilling down Malcolm’s throat.

Malcolm swallows.

~

They take a shower together, washing each other, refamiliarizing themselves with the other in a nonsexual manner. It’s been so long since they had this, either.

“I wasn’t lying,” Ian says as he rubs the younger man’s hair dry. “Gil has been looking.”

“He doesn’t think of me that way. I’ll always be a kid to him.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. 

But the sniper shakes his head. “He’s in love with you.” 

“Ian —”

Ian gives him a peck on the lips. “I promise you. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is.” Taking a towel, he dries his own short spiky hair. “If you want him and he doesn’t want to share, I’ll step aside.”

“What? _No,_ ” Malcolm insists. “Ian, I’ve missed you. I can’t —” He can feel the tears building up, and he shakes his head. He still doesn’t feel like he deserves Ian. He still thinks it was best to break up. He’s selfish. “I was attracted to you initially because you looked like him, but I fell in love with _you._ ”

Ian looks at him accessingly. “I think we need to talk.”

They do. 

“I’m a mess,” Malcolm says, voice small. “I fucked up, Ian, and I didn’t want to stay and fuck up your life, too.”

Ian frowns, but pulls the profiler in close, refusing to let him wallow on his own and yet giving him the space to talk.

Malcolm clutches at him and swallows. “Your family was going to visit, and I thought I might be pregnant, and then I fucked up. There wasn’t a baby, just stress. I’m sorry, _I’m sorry._ ”

“We’re both a mess,” Ian insists, holding him even tighter. “Why do you think the Bureau was so ready to turn on me? I’m stubborn, rich boy. You know that. There’s nothing you could do that would make me give you up. If anything, I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t have waited to talk to you about my family.”

There’s so much more to talk about but not tonight. Later, they might discuss the pregnancy scare, what Malcolm would have done if it wasn’t a scare. They might talk about family and what it really means to both of them. They might consider actively trying for their own.

For now, they sleep entwined in each other’s arms. 

~

In the morning, it’s almost like they never split. Ian raids his fridge and finds the ingredients to make a basic omelet with expensive cheese. He already knows which variety would work the best and how much to use, having gotten used to his lover’s love of pricey dairy. He leans against the counter in his boxers and whisks the eggs together with a strong arm while Malcolm refills Sunshine’s food dish, also clad only in his boxer briefs, hair still mussed from sleep. There’s still time until Gil comes by to pick him up.

Or there should be. There’s a knock at the door, just like the night before, except this time it can’t be Ian.

Malcolm answers it without thinking. 

Gil stares. Presumably, he’s seeing the hickeys, the hair, the flush and coming to conclusions not entirely in his head.

“Who is it?” Ian calls out from the kitchen, pouring the eggs into the pan.

“May I come in?” the Lieutenant says tersely. He’s looking at Malcolm’s face, not behind the younger man, pointedly not at the sniper making breakfast, his smile strained.

Malcolm lets him in without a word. He’s not sure he can say anything right now. The fantasies his mind conjured up to go with Ian’s words are front and center this morning as the two men of his dreams stand in his loft. No matter how sure his partner was that Gil loves him, no matter how much Malcolm trusts those instincts, he can’t help but feel an edge of discomfort, too. He shouldn’t have thought about Gil that way. He shouldn’t have fantasized, gone along with Ian’s teasing, said his name as he came. 

“Agent Edgerton.”

The profiler winces at the underlying aggression in his tone. He slips into the bedroom and pulls on some pants and a shirt, suddenly feeling much too naked.

“Lieutenant Arroyo,” Ian replies in his most neutrally pleasant voice. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

“Yes. Bright, I’ll be at the precinct. It looks like you already have a ride.” Gil turns and leaves without giving Malcolm so much as a glance. “Don’t be late.”

“Gil —” The profiler’s shoulder slump as the door shuts. 

“He’s jealous,” Ian says behind him. He’s plating up the melty halves of the omelet at the bar. “I’m telling you, rich boy, he loves you.”

“I don’t think he likes _you_ at all.” 

~

Things with Gil are still tense when they arrive at the precinct together. It’s almost a relief to get a call about another shooting, even though the timing is shocking. They just had one the other day. No one wants to consider that their shooter is escalating.

“There were officers in the area,” the Lieutenant tells them as they converge on the scene. “They got here right away and shut things down. Our wounded officer is on his way to the hospital.”

One of the officers already there shows them where the other was shot. “Best we could tell, he was caught in the back,” she says quietly. “He probably won’t make it.”

Malcolm glances at Ian, who is looking for potential spots, slowly scanning the buildings and considering the options. “Any ideas?”

“There,” Ian says, gesturing to one of the taller ones. “Roof, probably.” He takes off to look. 

Gil frowns. “JT, you’re with him. We don’t move alone.”

Which leaves him and Malcolm, Dani having broken off to interview the first officers on the scene.

“Look, about this morning —” the profiler starts.

“ _Bright,_ ” Gil shouts, cutting him off. He throws himself at the younger man, tackling him to the ground as he catches a glimpse of something at the top of the building Ian and JT left for, bringing them both to the asphalt before a bullet lodges itself in the road by where they were standing. Together, they scramble behind a car. “Are you okay?”

“Scraped, maybe a little bruised, but I should be fine,” Malcolm says breathlessly. He’s still huddled up against the Lieutenant, both of them trying to keep out of sight. “That came from where I think it did, didn’t it? Ian and JT will catch them.”

Gil winces at the sniper’s name. “I’m sorry for this morning, kid. I didn’t — do you love Edgerton?”

“I did. Do. I broke it off before I came back.” He looks away as he thinks about it again and tries to focus on what Ian told him the night before. 

“Is that why you never talked about him? Or is it because he…” Gil doesn’t finish the question.

But Malcolm isn’t stupid. “Because he looks like you?” He laughs, bringing his legs closer to his chest. “I had the biggest crush on you, Gil,” he says quietly. He doesn’t, can’t face the older man. “When I met Ian… yes, I was attracted to him because of that. It was a safe way to explore my feelings. You had Jackie, and you were never going to see me that way.”

Turning the profiler’s head with a gentle hand, Gil kisses him. It’s quick, it’s soft, it’s a shock. For both of them. Gil curses. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

Malcolm initiates it this time.

~

They don’t hear the shot, not in the elevator. 

JT’s phone rings, Dani’s name flashing up on the screen, and he answers it immediately. “What’s up?” He hangs up with a grim face. “The shooter’s still here, Agent. Tried to shoot Bright.”

Hand going to his holster, Ian pulls out his gun and holds it at the ready. “You said ‘tried’.”

“Gil knocked him out of the way. That’s all I know.”

The elevator doesn’t go to the roof, but it does go to the top floor. They use a maintenance key provided by the secretary, climbing the last remaining flight of stairs to get to their shooter. Ian opens the door slowly, silently. JT is at his heels, gun out. 

The shooter is set up at the edge, rifle perched on the small ledge around the top of the building. He’s aiming up his next shot.

Ian shoots first. The bullet hits him in the shoulder, ripping through it and forcing him to drop the rifle. Grinning with grim satisfaction, the sniper lets JT cuff the bastard while he pulls out his phone, dialling a familiar number. “He’s down, rich boy. No, I left him alive. He’s a lucky son of bitch.” He hangs up.

“Little help here?” JT says, hauling the bleeding man up to his feet.

Ian gladly helps. If he’s rough, the detective ignores it.

~

Down on the ground, Dani, Gil, and Malcolm stand talking while the remaining officers do damage control with the building crowd. News has already arrived on the scene, too.

Malcolm’s grateful that Ainsley is behind a desk nowadays, though he expects a few worried calls from both her and their mother regardless. There’s a commotion over by the building Ian and JT disappeared into. He turns, and there he is.

Ian. As soon as the two of them can pass the shooter off to waiting officers, the Agent veers off to meet his partner. He stops in front of him, giving him a once over, scanning for injuries. When there are none, he hugs him tight and only breaks away to drag him into a searing kiss. 

Behind them, Gil looks away.

“I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to go home,” Malcolm says, for Ian and Ian only. 

The sniper nods. “Back to the loft?”

“Please.”

~

This time, the knock on the door is no surprise.

Malcolm pulls on a robe and answers it, letting Gil into the loft for the second time that day. He leans into the hand that rests on the nape of his neck. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me, too, kid,” the Lieutenant murmurs. Hesitation is written all over his face, but he’s here, and that’s what matters. “Edgerton.”

The sniper flashes him a smile. “If we’re doing this, call me Ian.”

“What is _this_ exactly?” Gil says, not moving to take a seat. 

Ian starts. “A relationship. Malcolm is in love with both of us, and I’m willing to share if you are.” It’s blunt and honest. 

“We talked about it,” Malcolm assures him. “I’m onboard, Gil, I promise.”

“I should say no.” His eyes drift to the profiler. “You know Jessica is going to throw a fit, and we wouldn’t be able to be public without fallout.”

Malcolm swallows and nods. “I know, but I want this, and so does Ian.”

“I do,” Ian says. “We were talking about you joining us earlier, about how much he wants you to fuck him. He’s loose and sloppy. All you need to do is pull the plug out.”

Gil breathes in sharply. “Malcolm?”

“It’s true. I — Gil, please. I’ve been waiting.” Looking up at the Lieutenant, he shucks his robe, standing there in boxer briefs, flushed and wanting. 

With little to no hesitation now, Gil toes off his shoes and removes his coat. “Go ahead, you two. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Ian takes their boy over to the bed, sitting crosslegged at the head of it and encouraging Malcolm to lay down with his head in his lap. He strokes his hair as they wait.

When their third joins him, he’s naked and hard. He walks over to them with firm strides, his eyes roaming over the lithe young man waiting for him, trembling from what he now knows is likely the plug in his ass. The mattress dips underneath his knees as he climbs up between his legs. He slips his fingers beneath the waistband and reveals Malcolm’s leaking arousal, the base of the plug nestled inside him.

“He likes being filled,” the sniper tells him. “He wants to be fucked full. He wants to be _bred._ ”

Malcolm leans his head against Ian’s thigh and moans. “Please, Gil.”

“You want my — our kid?” Gil’s voice is rough.

The profiler nods.

“I need to hear it. Say it.”

Meeting the Lieutenant’s gaze, Malcolm licks his lips. “Please knock me up, Daddy.”

Gil grasps the plug and eases it out. His eyes shut when he sees the sheen of semen on the silicone, mixed with lube. With a deep breath, he hikes the younger man’s legs up and sinks into his heat, groaning as Malcolm keens. “You’re going to be the death of me, kid.”

Ian grins. “You can move. The way he’s squirming around you? He’s desperate.”

So Gil moves. The young man is so slick that it’s an all too easy slide. He listens to the soft sounds that escape him, using them as a guide to build up his pace, and soon enough he’s fucking into him steadily.

Beneath him, Malcolm digs his fingers into Ian’s legs for stability. He’s stuck in the middle of them, in the middle of exactly what he wants, Gil’s pleasure even better than he could have imagined. “God.”

“You’re taking him so good,” Ian says, hand still petting his head. He turns to Gil. “He loves to be praised.”

The Lieutenant huffs a laugh. “I should have guessed.” He shifts so that he can get in deeper. “You feel amazing,” he says, groaning. “Even after taking one cock, you’re tight. Hot. Wanton.”

“Gil.” Malcolm squeezes him, making him curse.

Reaching between them, Gil wraps a hand around his neglected dick. “Here, baby. Fuck. I’m not going to last much longer.” He jacks him with firm strokes, doing his best to time them with his thrusts. He spills first. He grinds into the younger man as he does and makes good on his promise to fill him up. His hand works faster in an attempt to bring Malcolm over with him.

It works. The profiler comes all over his chest with a stuttered moan, his ass milking Gil’s cock dry. 

When they separate, the Lieutenant slips the plug back in and drops down on the bed next to him, Ian shifting until they’re all comfortable. 

~

Malcolm orders a bigger bed the next day

### The closure.

#### 2020

#### New York City

Despite the fact that he was on birth control at the time, that they hadn’t gotten a chance to talk about actually having kids, it took barely any time for Malcolm to become pregnant once they started their relationship. He went to the doctor again as soon as the signs cropped up. He was expecting another negative, but even with both Gil and Ian trying to keep him in line, he still had a habit of getting himself into dangerous situations. He didn’t want to do that with a baby on the way. 

His men clearly agreed. Ian pulled back on his duties, only going in when they really needed him or for one off training seminars. He didn’t want to be away for five months at a time. Gil didn’t change his schedule, but he never had to travel far. They both accompanied Malcolm on any crime scene visits. Otherwise, the profiler tried to stick to the precinct as the months went by and his stomach grew, looking at pictures and files and doing as much as he could.

“I’m not that far along,” he complains when Ian sits him down at the bar, refusing to let the profiler help with dinner that night. His bump is fairly small for five months. “At least let me chop vegetables.”

“Not tonight,” Gil says. He’s drying his hair after his shower. 

Ian kisses his temple. “Let us pamper you, rich boy.”

Malcolm grumbles, but the flush creeping across his face gives him away. 

They eat dinner together as they have for months now, only missing a handful of days each time the sniper was called away on a case. Afterwards, Gil clears the dishes while Ian fetches something from his bag.

“I was originally planning on giving this to you last year,” the sniper says. He smirks. “Ina would kill me if I waited until she and Ama get here for the baby.” His parents were ecstatic at the prospect of grandkids — especially with Malcolm, whom they already considered a son. “You don’t have to accept it, Malcolm,” he adds.

It’s a ring box. Malcolm stares at it and swallows. God, he really fucked up last year.

“Hey, none of that,” Ian says, reaching out and holding his hand. 

The profiler gives him a watery smile. “What about Gil?”

Said man puts a comforting hand on his neck. “Just open it, city boy.”

He does. There are two rings in the box.

“One from each of us,” Ian confirms before he can ask. “We can’t get married legally, but we can have a commitment ceremony. If we let your mother plan it, she might forgive us.”

Malcolm shakes as he slips both of them on, unable to say anything with the overwhelming rush of things he’s feeling. He gets out of his chair to kiss each of them in turn. He lets Gil lead him back to the bedroom. He lets them both undress him.

Joining him on the bed, the Lieutenant holds his attention with languid kisses, nearly distracting him from the sniper’s slick fingers finding his hole. He swallows every one of Malcolm’s moans and gasps until he’s properly stretched. 

Ian settles against the headboard. “Bring him up here.”

With Gil’s help, the profiler sinks down on the sniper’s cock, the swell of his stomach brushing against him. He expects to start riding him right away.

But Ian stops him. “Patience, rich boy.”

He’s confused and aching — and then his second lover is behind him, gently pressing freshly slicked fingers to where he’s already connected to Ian. They’ve done this before, just a handful of times. It always leaves him feeling so open, so sloppy, so _good_ , but the two of them worry about hurting him, especially while he’s pregnant. They haven’t done this in months. He grips Ian’s shoulders and tries to relax as much as possible.

Gil lays a kiss on the nape of his neck, a whispered _good boy_ following in its wake. Slowly, carefully, he stretches him open enough to take another cock. When he judges him ready, the Lieutenant eases in, paying close attention to Malcolm’s reactions, his hands tight on his hips. 

The profiler whines and spasms around them both. He’s so full, and it feels so fucking good. “Can I move?”

Ian nods, teeth clenched. He helps Gil help their lover rise up for the first few times until he’s rocking onto them on his own.

Gil has the leverage to move, too, and he adds some thrusting into the mix. None of them can go too fast this way, but the slow build of friction, the two thick cocks brushing against each other in Malcolm’s slick heat, every little sound all three of them make — all of it is more than enough. 

“You can come,” Ian says, dark eyes trained on his face. “Show us how much you love this.”

Gil fists the young man’s dick to help him along, and Malcolm falls over the edge first, shooting come on his bump, on Ian.

The sniper finishes second with a groan as he watches the profiler tremble through his orgasm.

Finally, fucking up into his lover’s sloppy, pliant ass, Gil’s hips stutter and his mouth latches onto the pale shoulder in front of him. 

~

It takes them entirely too long before they feel up to cleaning up. They end up in the shower, both older men propping their sleepy pregnant partner up between them. The shower is quick and the dressing quicker. Ian changes the sheets while Gil puts together some expensive cheese and crackers for a hungry Malcolm. 

Eventually, they sleep, the three of them curled up around each other, the growing swell of their child in the middle.

**Author's Note:**

> _It could be weird, but I think I'm into it_  
>  _You know I'm one for the overly passionate_  
>  _I like you, and I loved him_  
>  _We could all be the best kind of friends_  
>   
>  _You said you're into closure_  
>  _Shake hands like you're supposed to_  
>  _I'll be in the middle_  
>  _While you two get along_  
>  \- Dodie


End file.
